Bad Moon Rising
by solynacea
Summary: It's been 3,000 years since the end of the first Holy War. Moth, the last of her kind, finds herself a member of the criminal group of knights, the Seven Deadly Sins, as war threatens the land of Britannia once more. When past and present collide, the only question that remains is, "Are you sure the only you is you?" [Estarossa x OC]
1. For Every Beginning

**A/N:** Hello, everyone! I know it's been quite some time — too long, in fact — since I gave this story any attention. And, to be quite honest, there's no real excuse for it. I simply lost the motivation to write and dropped it by the wayside. But I'm pleased to announce that it's back and better than ever!

For those of you who have followed, reviewed, and bookmarked this tale: thank you so very, very much. You'll notice that the old chapters are gone, and there's a very good reason for that: this is a revised, updated version, incorporating the lessons I learned while writing another story called _Dark Side of the Moon._ This will have the same basic plot, but a lot of the details and character interactions have changed, so I'll hope you'll give this a chance and come to love it just as much as you did the original.

I want to give a huge, warm shout-out to my beta, lickitysplit. Thank you for keeping me going, for inspiring me, and for all of your love and support.

With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

He does not know what draws him north. Perhaps the isolation, as fewer villages means a lesser chance of meeting _her_ again, or perhaps he has simply grown weary of the southern climes. Yet it is north he goes, beyond the growing kingdoms of Camelot, Danafor, and Liones, following the trails laid by deer and wolves when the ones trodden by man reach their end. It is cold, though not the killing chill of winter, and he finds that he cannot sleep; or he forges on to keep warm, counting his snow-muffled steps and the puffs of his breath upon the air. North, and north, through gnarled forest and ancient wood.

He knows this place, doesn't he? But which him, from which life? _The one where it all began,_ he thinks, and his mind is filled with the sounds of slaughter, singing iron and screams, so that he must find a cave to sleep in until his head is quiet. Then he continues on, because he cannot stop, or he risks _her_ finding him once more.

His days are marked by the meals he eats in the evenings; by his estimate, he has had twenty when he reaches the remnants of the kingdom. It is apparent that it was a prosperous place: the stone that makes the walls is finely sculpted, the roads are paved, and a grand building towers in the distance. But it is ruined, the houses and stalls torn to shreds, the ground stained with blood and soot. Everywhere he looks, there are bodies, all with the same look of surprise and fear upon their faces, though, as he drags himself farther in — _to find a survivor,_ he tells himself, but his true purpose is to take anything that will help him survive in the wild — there are weapons alongside men and women with leather armor. He kneels next to one to check, releasing a low breath when the woman's rotting jaw snaps off in his palm. Magic is ripe in the air; is it theirs?

Two things are clear to him as he rests in the broken square: they had fought.

And they had lost.

He drops the jaw back onto the corpse as he stands, wiping his hands on his trousers. More than likely, there is nothing here and he is simply wasting his time, yet . . . His eyes lift to the gates ahead, which before they were ripped down had blocked the road from the city to what is either a palace or a temple. There could be something of value within, whether it be supplies or an artefact of some kind, one capable of breaking curses; or he is not the same person he used to be, the one who would have refused to steal from the dead. Blood from the steps peels in rust-like flakes as he climbs, scuffing away under his boots, but there is more beneath and he holds his breath at the rich-iron scent. At the top is a landing, where giant piles of ash and crumbling wood rest. He inspects one, unsurprised by the fragments of bone within — _why were these the only ones burned?_ — before shouldering through the splintered doors.

There are no signs of battle within, merely death. Whatever happened here, it was merciless and one-sided, leaving nothing but chipped pillars and a cracked floor and an altar that is barely standing behind. That is where he goes, skirting the piles of rubble until he stands before the ornate surface and can run his hand along the engraving at the edge. More magic, but of what sort he does not know, and he frowns as he circles it; then he is at the back, and a square depresses under his fingers with a resounding ' _click.'_

A panel slides down. Again he kneels, this time to peer cautiously beneath, his hand firm on the hilt of his sword, counting the beats of his hearts as his eyes adjust to the dark. Then he rears back, shaking his head because there is a ghost, yet another thing from his past that has come back to haunt him and remind him of his failures, black hair and green eyes and _Meliodas, you idiot, you nearly hit me with that,_ and the sound of laughter.

But there is no ghost, he realizes when he looks again: merely a girl with pale skin and dark hair, her white dress stained with blood, some of it hers going by the gash at her hairline. For a moment, he thinks she is dead. Then he catches the faint, uncertain rise and fall of her chest and bites his lip. Take her with him or leave her to die?

 _Meliodas, this is my friend._

He removes his cloak and wraps her in it, standing when it's secure and lifting her to cradle her to his chest. He carries her through the city, the eyes of the dead staring accusingly from their sockets as the wind begins to wail, his skin crawling under their scrutiny. _My fault,_ he thinks, and he's forced to close his eyes against the wave of nausea.

The girl needs shelter and warmth to recover, which means he cannot go down the mountains the way he came. The closest village is at their base, twenty days' walk away, and _she_ will be angry if the girl dies; so he pulls his power and lets it flow, the wings that form vast and strong. It has been too long since he last allowed himself flight, and his takeoff is awkward and ungainly, yet the skill returns to him easily enough even if the girl is dead weight in his arms.

There is only one inn in the village, and the owner regards him warily when he enters. He cannot blame him, he supposes, for wanting nothing to do with a dirty swordsman carrying an injured girl, but he has become clever with his lies and manages to gain both the man's sympathy and a room for two silvers. Another coin buys him warm water and towels that the owner's wife delivers to his room, and she promises meals and leaves with three more.

When he is certain she will not return for a while, he sets about undressing and cleaning the girl; her dress he burns, because it is beyond saving, and he cleans the grime from her skin and bandages the wound in her scalp. It is little more than a chore, a mindless activity that occupies his hands while he mulls over his options. He knows _what_ she is, if not who, and knows that her awakening could be violent. He decides to keep her with him, if only to keep her safe.

A little voice whispers, _liar,_ and he shakes it away.

The wife brings dinner and a roughspun tunic for the girl. As he eats, he branches out his magic to see if there is something more to her condition, relaxing when he brushes against a minor sleeping spell. The girl will awaken on her own; there is nothing he can do for her, and so he settles against the wall and draws his sword onto his lap, tending to it while he waits. He has moved on to polishing when he hears a quiet whimper, his eyes lifting to watch as she twitches fitfully beneath the sheets.

She comes to all at once, bolting upright, her expression one of panic as she twists to take in her surroundings. What does she remember, he wonders while she reaches up to press her fingers to the bandage around her head, what did she see? Her gaze lands on him, and he waits for her to cry out, to bolt towards the door that he had latched so she could not run, yet all she does is drop her eyes to her lap before rolling onto her side. When he sees her shoulders shaking, he knows she is crying, and he clenches his fists to rein in the urge to go to her.

They stay at the inn for three weeks, during which the girl never utters a word. She helps the innkeeper's wife with chores or stays by his side when the tavern fills with rowdy patrons, but her voice remains locked in her throat, save for the nights when she wakes him with her screams. No matter who asks, or in what tone — the innkeeper's wife starts out sympathetic before she returns to a method that had no doubt worked with her own children, a no-nonsense love that has no time for whining girls — she will not give her name, not even written, so he devotes a day to creating one for her. _Ghost_ is the first, given after she winds up covered from head to foot in flour, and he thinks it is fitting for her, little more than a shell of what she once was. The girl accepts it as she does everything, calmly and without complaint, and it does not take long for her to respond to it as though it was the one she was given at birth. The day they leave the inn, she surprises all of them by thanking the innkeeper and his wife in a voice that would be lovely if it were not cracked from disuse, and some of the ache in his heart eases. _Perhaps we will be alright, after all._

The next five years pass in a state of never-ending travel. The two of them stop only when it is necessary, for supplies or to shelter from harsh weather, and a queer possessiveness begins to fester within him. She still does not speak, but he is learning her voice: the barely-there songs she hums while they pack, the faint laughter he strains his ears to hear, the whines and murmurs of her slumber. He cannot say whether or not she is beginning to heal; how could she, after all she has suffered? Even before her family was murdered, she would have endured agony, the testament to that left in the tattoos that cover her skin, the patterns and runes haphazardly beautiful. Yet she _seems_ happier, more and more like a child with every day that passes, and he contents himself with that. He teaches her how to hunt, how to set and check snares and track deer; buys her a bow and shows her how to craft arrows, how to sight and release with lethal accuracy. She absorbs his lessons in silence, but smiles whenever he praises her, and that hurts him in a way he had thought he could not be hurt.

Then they find a healer named Elisheva in a village to the far south, in the lands that are home to the caravans and desert folk. Her hair is dark and braided to fit her station, but her eyes are a piercing blue, like a frozen river, and he knows her the way that he always does. She welcomes them with the suspicion ingrained in her people, her only reason for concern the too-thin girl that he brings with him, and he grows to love the marks she bears, the owl on her cheek whose eyes narrow whenever she scrunches her nose. The girl loves her, too, and it is to Elisheva that she first unlocks her voice, in soft repetitions of what is said before. The healer laughs when it continues, and one night she tells them of the spirit that lives in wells and waters, doomed only to say what she has heard by a goddess jealous of her devotion to another. _Her name is Echo,_ Elisheva says, and that is the second name the girl is called.

But life in the desert is cruel, and it their joy lasts mere months. He knows he should have left long before the mark flares in Elisheva's eyes, before she begins to heal in ways that are beyond mortal means, but he is selfish and so they stay. It is Elisheva who tells the girl of their curse, of how they had forsaken their parents to love one another, and she promises that she will never forget the girl who has been like a daughter to her. The night before the third day, she washes the girl's hair with perfumed water and braids it in the way of her family, with polished beads and bits of bone, and she sings her to sleep before joining him in their bed. They make love in an unhurried way, and she brushes the tears from his cheeks after they have finished. The bandits come the next morning, and he is too late to stop them from using her as a whore before breaking her neck, the crunch of bones unbearably loud in his ears.

His rage simmers in his chest, but he buries her instead, smothering his desire to avenge her beneath grief. Before, he would have given himself to the darkness in his breast; now there is a girl who needs him, a girl who he has promised both to himself and to the one who matters most that he will take care of.

Which is why panic thunders through him when he returns to the village and finds her gone, the house they shared ransacked, blood on the walls and floors. For two days, he searches for her among the corpses. On the third, she wakes him from an uneasy slumber, a sack clutched in her hand that reeks of death and drips a dark liquid to the ground. He opens it to find the bandit leader's head within, his eyes gone and his mouth stretched in a perpetual scream of agony, and he looks at her and the blood caked and dried on her skin and shakes her, his voice loud and scolding and so unbearably afraid.

They travel for three hundred years, yet she never ages beyond her eighteenth winter. Because witches are long-lived, he pays this no mind, knowing that they will be safe as long as they do not rest in one place for more than a year at most. One century, they traverse the frozen north, hunting dragons who breathe frost instead of fire, sheltering in caves and weaving blankets from saberwolf pelts. The next, they trace a meandering trail along the coast, learning how to fish the cruel waters from men with weather-beaten faces and fingers of cracked leather. Every few years, they find _her_ again, and the times they spend with her are bursts of color tinged with agony. With each death the girl — no longer such, but he cannot think of her as anything other than the waif he had pulled from the wreckage so long ago — becomes more determined to lift the curse that haunts them.

Elspeth, in a town fifty kilometers from the new kingdom of Danafor, is the one who points out the reality he has refused to face. Gone are the round cheeks and tiny hands, the boy-straight line of her body beneath tunics. The girl now is waifish still, a state he knows she will never grow out of, but her breasts are supple and her hips curve from a dainty waist, yet it is her face that shows the most marked change. With her dark lashes and upturned nose and full lips, she is a haunted beauty, a doll that earns more than a few followers wherever they linger. But there is danger to her, too, in the fluid way she moves, in the ease with which she rips out the heart of the man who leaves Elspeth to die on the side of the road after strangling her with her scarf. _Wraith,_ he names her, and she looks at him with storm-cloud eyes and smiles. It is a fitting one for someone who has learned to tread so quietly that he cannot hear her, who masks her presence from those around them.

It is in Danafor that they meet Liz. The girl, recognizing her and knowing the cruel fate that awaits, pleads with him to ignore her, to leave the lands they have come to know and the titles he has worked hard to earn, but how can he? How can he forsake her when she will die if he does not intervene? He breaks the shackles that bind her and trains her, promising every day that they will depart the moment he knows she is safe, the moment she has a home, the moment she is accepted by the other knights. Then they are sharing a house with a bird named Wandle, and he watches the girl and Liz bicker over what they should eat and whether or not Visni is trying to woo her, and he thinks, _this is the last one. I won't let her die._ And he nearly comes to believe it, because they spend years with her, and there are bitter arguments and tender moments, their family knitting together until even the girl, so wary of the curse, begins to relax.

He should have known it would not last, that a witch in grief would be more dangerous than the gods.

There is blood in his mouth and a dagger in her hand when they stumble from that chasm, an infant in his arms, and he watches as she nearly buries it in the throat of the silver-haired knight who reaches for the child. _She is not yours to take,_ a cold hiss in the air, heard only by him as he steps between them to listen, as they are invited back to another kingdom. There, they prove their worth as knights, and the girl returns to her silence, trusting none of their new companions. When a sorceress arrives with plans to create an elite group of warriors, she picks the girl to join, only to be rebuffed. Yet she is part of it, and she is the one who forges bonds with the others, listening to the poetry of Pride, the incessant questions of Lust, drinks with Greed and dances with Envy, watches Sloth love who he cannot have. When the others see how she hovers, perching in window sills and trees to watch the youngest princess, they call her _Crow,_ and she takes it as her fourth name.

When they are betrayed, they both see a girl injured by those who would do them harm, and it is only the intervention of the sorceress that saves the kingdom from their wrath. They wake in a field with a talking pig and no memory of how they arrived, or that they nearly lost themselves to their rage. There is only the death of a friend and the sight of a sorceress standing over them. Knowing they cannot remain where they are, they befriend the pig and its mother and sell their weapons to build a tavern atop her back, christening the Boar's Hat with a grin. Then they begin their search for the others, visited every year by knights who bring wanted posters to tack to their walls, buying liquor and cheap food from the two they are meant to hunt but do not recognize. Six years after their exile, he finds her studying the new drawings with a frown, her gaze fixed on his as though she is trying to remember who it belongs to, and he gives her a name that will hopefully be her last.

They have just set up outside of a small hamlet known as Cain's Village when their customers are frightened off by a girl wearing rusted armor, a girl with hair like starlight and eyes cut from sapphires. Meliodas turns to his companion with a raised brow, and, to his surprise, Moth smiles.


	2. Event Horizon

**A/N:** Chapter 2 is here! Thank you for your continued support, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Moth isn't quite sure what to feel. The confrontation with Twigo and his knights — if they could even be called such, the cowering fools that they were — had been perhaps the most exhilarating thing to happen since the opening of the Boar's Hat. Rowdy patrons who needed a guiding hand could hardly compare to the thrill of actual combat, after all, something she knows Meliodas had felt as well. Why else reveal their identities so dramatically, using his signature technique to send the blustering giant flying? But with that came a disadvantage in the form of the princess who had caused it all, and Moth watches with irritation as Meliodas flits around Elizabeth, squeezing her curves. They should send her away, let her stumble back to Liones, and return to hunting down their companions. However, she knows all too well that, once _she_ has been found, Meliodas will not part from her, which is why she finally tosses her rag onto the counter and stalks towards the store room, needing space to _think._

Meliodas follows her mere minutes later, leaning on the door with his head cocked to the side. "What's gotten into you?" he asks, as though he doesn't know, and that angers her. So she ignores him, choosing instead to sift through the clothing on the shelf in the hope of finding something more fitting for Elizabeth to wear than her torn bodysuit. "Come on, you can tell me? Ah! Maybe it's that your shirt got ripped? Sorry about that!"

"It can be replaced," she says coolly. "I only wonder what you plan to do now. It's hard enough keeping our secret without a missing royal in our tavern. Were you thinking you'd keep her locked in your room until we reached Liones? Or . . ." Moth studies a skirt critically, deciding it is too short, and tosses it onto a growing pile. "Perhaps you are thinking with the wrong head."

"Hm? No, that's not it. Now that she's here, I can't just turn her out. You know that."

"She wouldn't be if we had left the kingdom sixteen years ago instead of loitering about, playing at knights. Did you learn nothing from Danafor?"

He sighs, and she feels the shift in the air as he draws his magic to him, something that does not bother her in the slightest. He probably doesn't realize he does it, that it's a hallmark of his blooming irritation. "That wouldn't have changed anything. No matter how hard I try to stay away, she always finds me somehow. It's part of our punishment, and there's nothing you or I can do to stop it." Then, as though he enjoys twisting the knife when it is already between her ribs, "Could you really leave her to die alone?"

"Don't be dramatic. It doesn't suit you."

"We both know what happens if she's found by a knight. She'll be taken back to the castle and imprisoned alongside her family, and that's _if_ they haven't been killed by now." He walks to her and takes the clothing from her hands, nudging her gently to the side. "Our best bet is to have her stay with us. Who knows? Maybe she'll be able to charm information out of our customers."

Moth bites her tongue as he sorts through shirts and skirts and trousers, unwilling to revisit the vicious arguments they'd had years and years ago, when he had saved a woman slated for death and brought her into their home. That had been the longest lifetime yet, with marriage on the horizon, and she had allowed herself to think that maybe it was over. Maybe the curse would not strike again. Wasn't that why she had begun to let down her guard, inch by tortuous inch? But it had, and they had once again felt the devastation of losing _her._

Within her boils a cocktail of love and hatred, so that when he picks up a skirt and blouse that would barely cover anything, she snaps, "Absolutely fucking not."

"You don't like it?" He glances at them curiously. "I think it'll look great on her."

"You want to put that on the princess of Liones? Are you out of your mind?" He holds them to her, humming as he eyes their fit, and she swats them away in a fit of temper. "Keep her here, fine. I can't force you not to. But for the gods' sake, is it necessary to dress her in _that?"_

With a sigh, he drops them to his side. "You're right. The color wouldn't do her any justice. Should we go with blue? Or maybe —"

" _Meliodas."_ Exasperation creeps into the edges of her voice, and she does her best to swallow it. "I understand. Believe me, I do. I want to see her safe and happy as much as you. But do you really think that putting her on display for yourself is any way to go about this?"

She watches him mull it over, his brow furrowing, and waits as patiently as she can for whatever excuse he will come up with. She _does_ want Elizabeth around, as much as she knows she will suffer for it later, has craved her soothing presence ever since they were banished ten years ago. Yet if it means that the princess survives, she will gladly drop her on someone else's door and walk away. "It's not about that," he says slowly, holding up his hands when she cocks a brow, "but trying to let her experience parts of life she wouldn't otherwise enjoy."

"As a waitress?"

He shakes his head. "There's no guarantee that she'll be able to go back to a normal life after we find the Sins. Or that the curse won't kill her. She's already met me, and that's always what sets it in motion. What harm is there in dressing her in something like this if she might not make it another two months?"

Her shoulders slump with a sigh that is more than a little weary. "So let her wait tables and meet the people of her kingdom. There's no need to add degradation to it."

"Merlin —"

"Merlin," she interrupts, "is someone who is far older and more experienced than Elizabeth is now, and she chose her own clothing for her own enjoyment. This is different. You are making a choice for Elizabeth based on your own desires."

"You've never loved anyone, have you?" he asks, and beneath the light tone there is a taunt that is unmistakable, and she thinks of little gifts left on her pillow and bile rises in her throat.

"Fuck you," she hisses. "You're not the only one who lost someone they care for."

They stare at each other, power crackling in the air between them, until finally he relents with a wry smile. "You're right. Shall we call her in and let her decide?"

Moth nods, and he moves to the door and pokes his head out with a shout of Elizabeth's name. Her heart is thundering in her chest, because he was right in his assessment — she has felt love, of course, for her friends, for _her,_ for Meliodas himself, but not the sort that she has seen in his eyes whenever _she_ is around — and because admitting that he was right is a thorn in her side. But there's something else, isn't there? A feeling of loss that has grown stronger as she has gotten older, one that aches like a missing limb whenever she sees the wanted poster hanging on their wall? _Catch me if you can,_ she thinks, then rubs at her forehead as pain flares behind her eyes.

The door creaks as Elizabeth enters, her eyes widening at the vast array of supplies that occupy the shelves. She is nervous, toying with the ends of her hair as Meliodas arranges different outfits on top of a barrel. "What is it, Sir Meliodas?"

He closes his eyes as Moth answers for him. "We have a proposition for you. As you know, one of the reasons we opened the Boar's Hat was to gather information about the other Sins, but it's difficult for us since I work the bar and Meliodas is more concerned with cooking than eavesdropping. If you're up for it, we'd like for you to work as a waitress. You'll be closer to the customers and have more chances to overhear anything that might be of interest."

"A waitress?" Perplexed, Elizabeth looks between her and the clothes. "I've never . . . I mean, I don't know if I'll be any use at all."

"It's no different than royal dinners." Realizing how blunt, how _cold,_ that sounded, Moth softens her voice and adds, "You'll have us looking out for you, but you don't have to do it if you don't want to."

Elizabeth stares at her for a second, then asks, "I would be helping you?"

"Mhm." Meliodas smiles, and Moth nods in agreement when he says, "Very much."

"Then I'll do it!"

Eyes brimming with determination, Elizabeth begins rummaging through the pile. She ends up selecting the top Meliodas preferred, much to Moth's bemusement, but the skirt she picks out is longer and she adds a pair of tights to the ensemble. She holds them out, seeking approval, and they both give their consent before leaving her to get dressed in privacy. In the main room, Hawk, still fuming over Meliodas' earlier antics, proceeds to give him an earful about the proper way to treat a lady — ignoring that Meliodas has never been anything but courteous to other women — until Elizabeth steps out of the store room and all attention falls on her. She fidgets beneath their scrutiny, tugging at the hem of her blouse, and Moth thinks, _Can we actually do this again?_

"Um . . ." Elizabeth glances between them, looking hopeful. "Is this okay?"

Meliodas circles her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It's the official uniform, so . . ." Without warning, he lifts the edge of her skirt, peering beneath, causing Elizabeth to squeal. "Calm down, would you? I'm only checking to make sure it fits."

"You're going to scare her away!" Hawk shrieks. He digs his teeth into Meliodas' hair, yanking him back, and Moth picks up a glass to polish, realizing with a sort of defeat that this is going to be her life until either they part from the princess or she dies.

"I'm just doing my job as the manager," Meliodas refutes.

Hawk huffs out, "Oh, really? I don't see Moth acting like that!"

"That's because there's room for only one unashamed fool here," she replies blandly, "and he's filling the role."

Elizabeth watches them, her expression a mix of alarm and surprise, and she plays with the tie around her neck as she makes her way to the bar. "Um, Lady Moth?" Moth turns to face her, blinking at the title, and the princess flushes and looks away. "May I ask you something?"

"What is it?"

"Are the Seven Deadly Sins, and you . . . Are you really the terrible criminals everyone claims you are? What crimes did you commit to . . ." She takes a deep breath before bursting out, "I believe that society has you all wrong! I mean, you rescued me before you even knew who I was!"

A heavy silence falls over the room, Moth dropping her gaze to the chipped wood of the bar. There is smoke in her nose and screaming in her ears, _Please, don't! We've done nothing! Can't you see that we are innocent of what you've accused us of? She is only a child!_ "We —"

"Ten years ago, I stole the undergarments of women all across Britannia," Meliodas declares. She glances at him to find him looking at her with concern that is quickly masked beneath nonchalance.

Elizabeth, at least, is distracted by his proclamation. She looks horrified as she stammers, "Under . . . Are you making things up?"

"I am." He scratches at his ear. "The truth is, I went around groping the breasts of over one thousand young ladies."

"You're kidding!"

"Yep."

Irritation is plain on the princess' face as she leans towards him, and Moth wonders idly how she'd ever made it this far wearing her heart so openly on her sleeve. "Sir Meliodas, please be serious with me! Or did you commit a crime you can't even admit to?"

Moth holds her breath as Meliodas tilts his head and replies, "Maybe."

Elizabeth pauses, staring at him with confusion, and she might have said something else if not for the abrupt shaking of the bar as Hawk Mama digs her way into the earth, a sign that they had reached their destination. Meliodas catches her without any inappropriate touches when she stumbles; he and Moth, well used to the occurence, merely shift their balance in time with the rolling of the floor beneath them until it subsides. Then Moth kneels to gather the fallen bottles, checking to see which need their protective enchantments renewed, as Meliodas releases Elizabeth and peers out of the window. There is some talk about where they are, which Moth mostly ignores. Her job at each of their stops is to prepare the bar for visitors and assess their inventory, while Meliodas is the one who deals with vendors and drawing in customers. She returns their farewells as they leave, then sets about polishing tables, sweeping, and seeing which liquors and vegetables they need. _A good thing we're here,_ she muses, _since we're nearly out of Bernia._

As she straightens, she catches sight of her reflection in the scrying mirror hanging behind the bar, a gift from Merlin that is all but useless. The face that stares back at her is familiar, but something about it, as always, makes her uneasy, as though she is seeing double. When she was a child, she had fallen into the habit of keeping her image in sight for as long as possible, believing it was a doppelganger that would climb from the frame and . . . and what? Back then, she had been afraid that it wanted to devour her, but now there is only the disquieting sense that there is more to the reflection than she knows, that some great secret is concealed beneath the freckles and tattoos. Sometimes, at night or when she is tired, it seems that it is somehow different, as though she is looking at a drawing created from someone's memory, where the subtlest details are wrong, leaving an uncanny dread brewing within her.

A question, one that haunts her every time she glimpses a mirror, echoes within her mind: _the only me is me. Are you sure the only you . . . is you?_

Very few good things come from their stay in Bernia. While Elizabeth manages to acquire a hint to where one of the other Sins might be hiding, it comes at the cost of revealing their existence to a true Holy Knight, meaning that soon all of the kingdom will be searching for them. Moth surveys the wreckage in the town below the bar with concern shadowing her thoughts, and even Meliodas is in a foul mood when he returns up the path, Elizabeth in tow. They close the bar early and retreat to their rooms, an indignant Hawk clattering up the stairs behind Meliodas as he carts Elizabeth away, and his shrieking is muffled only by Moth closing her own door. Her quarters are small, tucked away beneath the stairs, and filled by books and scrolls, herbs and bones, crystals and powders and other spell ingredients. A window above the bed lets in the moonlight, and she opens it to enjoy the breeze as Hawk Mama begins to trek towards the Forest of White Dreams.

She thinks of the village boy and his questions, her mind latching onto the tenuous thread between childish curiosity and the marks that crawl along her flesh and tracing it to the day she had received them. But remembering the pain and fear she felt as her father held her down so her mother could drive the heated, ink-covered needle into her skin again and again is unpleasant, so Moth discards that and turns to other matters. Elizabeth is the next thought — _Elisheva, Elspeth, Liz_ —a princess so unlike the others she has known that it is hard to believe they are one and the same. She knows the truth, however, had carved into in her heart with blood and ash coating her tongue as they carried an infant girl from the ruins of Danafor, had let the poisonous roots take hold with every flower gifted to her, every lisping call of her name, until that tree bore fruit.

The princess may no longer be a little girl with chubby cheeks and starfish hands, but Moth would know her no matter how young or old Elizabeth might be, and she closes her eyes with a weary sigh as the weakness in the walls she'd built makes itself known.

Meliodas, too, has softened. It is not overtly apparent, as Elizabeth has been with them for merely a day, but he is more jovial with patrons and warm in his peculiar way, though a sorrow lingers in his eyes whenever he thinks he is unnoticed. Moth wonders if he, like her, is counting the days until they bear _her_ loss once more, and knows that he is; they had lived with Liz for nearly ten years before Danafor fell, and had grown complacent as time passed and the curse did not awaken. How long will it take now? Every hour is a knife wedging between their ribs, as though they are teetering on the edge of a cliff and waiting for the next strong breeze to force them over.

But when?

The questions and doubts chase themselves around in circles, until Moth realizes that the rising sun is painting her room with rosy light and she has not slept. She listens to the birds awaken and the cricket song fade away, and suddenly there is the scent of warm cider and the ghost of a caress against her cheek, and she shivers. _How long?_


	3. Of Witches

The tray is heavy in her hands as she climbs the stairs, the steam that curls above it fragrant with jasmine and wisteria. Moth balances it carefully, not wanting to disturb the fruit she'd spent so long peeling and slicing and arranging delicately around freshly toasted bread and eggs fried with the yolks perfectly in the center. It's far more work than she usually puts in, and Ban had watched her with hungover amusement as she'd slaved away in the kitchen, but she feels it is deserved after the events of the day before.

All of them had gotten so caught up in their tempers when faced with the games of the Weird Fangs that they had forgotten about the people of Dalmary caught in the midst of their battle. Yet Elizabeth, who even Moth had written off as unsuited for any sort of dangerous situation, had not, and she had risked her life to save theirs. So it seems only fitting that they should give her as close to the treatment she knows as royalty.

After all, without her they would most likely have lost, their journey to save her and her kingdom over before it truly started.

She knocks, waiting until she hears a quiet response to shoulder the door open. Elizabeth is resting, nestled cozily amongst a myriad of pillows that were more than likely acquired just for her. The princess smiles brightly at her, and there's a fresh wave of guilt at the sight of the bandages wound tightly around her head and arms and disappearing under the collar of her nightgown; if Moth had not been negligent, if she had just _caught_ the trace of magic lingering around Diane and Meliodas and the boy who was not a boy, Elizabeth never would have been caught up in their mess, and she would not be confined to the bed, looking like someone had tried to kill her with their fists. The only solace she finds is the fact that the knight responsible had not lived very long after his transgression. Moth had found him crawling away from the ruins of Baste Dungeon, and Meliodas had not questioned her when she returned to the doctor's home with blood on her hands.

"Lady Moth!" Elizabeth struggles to push herself up, and Moth quickly sets the tray on the bedside table before helping her. "I'm so glad that you're okay! You missed the dinner Doctor Dana hosted for us. Oh! Did you see the shooting stars? They were so lovely, weren't they?"

She gives a noncommittal grunt as she fluffs the pillows. "I suppose. Though I heard once that they were an omen of ill fortune."

"Really?" The princess accepts the tray when Moth places it over her lap.

"It's just a child's tale," Moth murmurs. "You need to eat."

Elizabeth studies Moth's offerings with curious delight, then she looks up hopefully. "Will you tell me? About your childhood, I mean?" When Moth arches a brow, she stammers, "I've just . . . I've never met a witch before, and we were so busy helping Lady Diane and Sir Ban that we haven't really been able to talk, and . . . I'm being foolish, aren't I?"

"No," Moth answers after a moment. "Eat. And I'll tell you."

The way Elizabeth lights up, as thought Moth is handing her the greatest gift in existence instead of scattered recollections of an era that might as well belong to someone else, brings a wave of love and grief in equal measure. She waits until the princess has set in on the eggs to say, "I want you to understand that I remember very little of my early life. It has been quite some time since I last thought of it, and what comes to mind first is unpleasant. I can tell you that I was born in Cailleach, the daughter of the Lord and Lady of my people, that the sunsets painted the city so that it seemed to be made of gold, not stone. It was cold most of the year, because it was so far north."

"Was?" Elizabeth looks at her curiously, and Moth swallows the sudden lump in her throat.

"Yes." Though obviously concerned, the princess does not inquire further, for which Moth is grateful. "My mother taught me of rituals and laws, and my father of politics. But it was grandmother who gave me the gift of stories, showed me how to harness magic and sung me to sleep with the heroes of old. One tale she repeated over and over again was of the Great War, and how it would come again, signalled by the crossing of the stars." She pauses, then says slowly, "My tattoos were given to me at a young age, and mark me as royalty and . . ." _God-killer,_ she thinks, but holds her tongue.

Elizabeth tilts her head. "They must have hurt," she whispers.

"Perhaps. Most permanent things do."

 _She is like me,_ Moth thinks later as she listens to Elizabeth speak, _yet where I cannot go back, there is hope for her still._ Content to listen, she closes her eyes as the princess tells of growing up in the castle, the trips she and her sisters would take to a lakeside villa every summer, and there is a noticeable sorrow that taints the otherwise lively recollections. When night comes and the sounds of the bar echo up the stairs, she waves off Elizabeth's concern about missing work, telling her that Meliodas is more than capable of running the tavern with the others.

Moth stays by her side until her eyes flutter and her breathing evens into the depths of slumber. Only then does the witch rouse herself from her chair, and she takes the long-empty tray down to the kitchen before retiring to her own quarters. The only ones still missing from their order are Gowther, Merlin, and Escanor. There is no telling where they have gone.

Yet part of her is glad, if in a guilty way, for the Lion's continued absence. While closest to Meliodas and Merlin, the rest are dear to her. However, there has always been something about Escanor that sets her on edge, as though some dark, hidden part of her cannot bear to be near him; and it is only during the day, when his magic crests and swells. There had been many nights where she listened to his poetry, his nervous dedication to Merlin endearing, but at the height of noon, he terrifies her. She does not know why, even now when he could be hundreds of miles away, the thought of The One makes her chest burn and ache; or why, at their first meeting, her only instincts were to fight or flee. _Not that it matters,_ she muses as she washes her face. _We'll need him one day, if Bartra's prediction of war was true._

* * *

"Mean! Mean! Stupid Gowther! I can't believe you'd announce a young girl's secrets to the world!" With each shriek, there is a blow that shakes the ground beneath her feet and threatens to send the glassware tumbling to the floor, yet Moth cannot stop the laugh that bubbles from her lips as she braces a hand against the counter. It had always been like this, and now that they are reunited it seems as though the past decade was nothing more than a foul dream. Another huff escapes her when Ban lets out a howl of outrage, no doubt due to Gowther revealing some misdeed or another, and she leans down to dip her rag into a bucket of soapy water and pauses.

There is no sting to the thought of being on the outside. She has always occupied an odd position: a Holy Knight, not a Sin, yet sent with them on missions and sharing their branch of the palace and training alongside them. But there is also no denying that she _wants_ to be with them, enjoying the festivities. Only the presence of Cain keeps her hidden with Boar's Hat, too afraid of facing the failure he represents; he had been the first to accept them into Danafor, the one who supported Meliodas in becoming Grand Master, who had pulled a mute girl to the side and assigned her to a man who she would come as close to loving as she could. It is in Cain that she sees all of the ones lost in Danafor — Peoli, Nazra, Liz, _Hycan_ — and so it is Cain that she cannot face.

She is turning to head into the kitchen, keenly aware that he could look through the window and spot her, when suddenly the Boar's Hat is gone and she sees the city of her birth. A flash of agony lances through her head and drops her to her knees. _You broke your promise,_ something oily slithers through her thoughts, twisting as sharply as a knife, _you broke it and they died._ There is smoke in her lungs and screaming in her ears, _Mother, mother, please, where are you,_ but that is not correct. The world around her is not burning, _she_ is, and she fights it because she cannot die, she _must not die,_ not until . . . Until what? She digs her fingers into her scalp, trying to think, to remember, but all that comes is a wall of black that threatens to swallow her whole and a feeling of loss so great that she folds in on herself as if to ward off a blow.

Moth is sinking, drowning, and then there are firm hands on her shoulders and a familiar voice murmurs, "Breathe," and she does. "Your head?" She nods, and Meliodas sighs and carefully rearranges her so her face is tucked under his chin. "It's been a while since one of your headaches. Do you think it will pass?"

"It already is," she mumbles, and he hums.

He cradles her until she pats his arm, and then he helps her to her feet, using one of his hands to block the light streaming through the window as her eyes adjust. "The others?" Moth asks.

"They'll be in soon. I think they're still scolding Gowther about reading the room."

"I wish them luck."

He moves behind the bar and she, as always, follows, picking her rag up from the floor as he sets about rearranging the bottles of ale knocked from their shelves by Diane's tantrum. One by one, their companions trickle inside: Elizabeth, with Hawk trotting at her heels; Ban, already drunk and still clutching ale; King, his face a furious shade of scarlet; and Gowther, looking perplexed. Elizabeth is quick to come help with clean-up, while the former knights settle onto stools and watch, and Moth reigns in the flare of temper at their behavior. _So they can drink the ale we work hard to buy, but can't be assed to get up and help once in a while, huh._ It's unfair, the irritation a side effect of such a near brush with what could have been a devastating migraine, but knowing that does not loosen her grip on the rag as she swipes at the already gleaming wood. There is the usual rumbling as Hawk Mama stirs, then the tavern begins to sway as she sets off.

"Hey, Cap'n," Ban drawls. Meliodas pauses his whistling to listen as he continues, "Where are we headed this time?"

"Could it be you know where the others are?" King asks tiredly, and Gowther stirs.

"You mean Escanor and Merlin?"

Moth tenses at the mention of him; Meliodas studies her for a moment before he says, "Nope. We're going to sneak into Liones and get back my sword!"

The silence following Meliodas' declaration is full of contemptuous amusement. Moth waits, her knuckles white around the bar rag in her hand, impatience rearing dark and ugly within her. _It's not their fault. They don't understand what has been lost._ Yet do the Sins truly believe Meliodas would suggest something so risky if it were not important? Gowther merely observes curiously as Ban and King exchange a glance, and she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes iron to keep herself from reaching over and cracking their skulls together. The sword is _gone._ The hilt she and Meliodas had sacrificed _everything_ for, snatched away in a moment of carelessness on her part, so caught up was she in the malignance that had flared from him like a wave. A hand on her arm startles her so that she whirls, ready to snap at whoever is touching her, only to draw up short at the concern on Elizabeth's face.

"Moth?" The princess peers at her — and how odd that is, this Elizabeth who is her height, who does not tower over her or scold her from below — and presses a lock of hair from her face. "This sword . . . Why is Lord Meliodas . . .?"

She shakes her head, catching the subtle tilt of Meliodas' head as he listens to their conversation. "It's a relic from ancient times. Think of it as a key to a door behind which true horrors lurk. And he has guarded it for years, so to lose it now . . ." But she trails off bitterly, unable to finish the thought. _If only I had been there sooner._

"We'll get it back." Elizabeth takes her hands firmly between her own. "I know it. There's nothing you and Sir Meliodas can't do, especially with the Sins."

"I don't know." Moth carefully draws away, unwilling to hurt her with any rebuff. "Do you remember the stories I told you of? The dragon hilt is from one of them. Long ago, at the end of a great war, the Five Clans came together and used their magic to seal away the demons using an instrument known as the Coffin of Eternal Darkness, made from relics blessed by each. For someone to seek it out now . . . Their goal is mostly likely the revival of the Demon Clan and the reignition of that war."

"Would the Holy Knights do that?" Elizabeth worries her lip, and there's a sudden rush of a fierce, protective love that makes Moth's throat tight. "I know that some of them are corrupt, but surely . . ."

"If that is indeed their plan, then it is from those at the top. I doubt every knight in Liones knows of this, nor would they support it if they did." Where does it come from? This urge to reassure? She takes a deep breath, searching for more of the same to offer, only to pause when Meliodas turns from the others with a scowl on his face and heads towards them.

"Looks like it'll be you and me," he says quietly, and she nods. Then, much more brightly, he turns to Elizabeth. "You look after the bar while we're gone, yeah? We won't be long."

"I —"

"Captain." Diane gazes in through the window, her brows furrowed. "If they really _do_ have your sword, then isn't it possible that the Demon Clan has already been revived?"

Next to her, Elizabeth goes pale; Moth reaches out, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze, one that the princess returns tightly, and Meliodas presses his fingers to his chin. "No," he replies after a moment. "The magic that went into the seal was incredibly powerful. If it were broken, there would be some sort of sign, one that we wouldn't be able to miss." There's a slight twitch to the corners of his mouth as he looks steadily at Moth, and she inclines her head in response.

"But why go after Elizabeth? If they have the sword —"

"Because she is the final key to lifting the seal."

It's close, far too close. Moth flings out a hand, calling a dagger to her even as Elizabeth is pulled forcefully away, twisting on her heel, _do not hit her do not hit her do not hit her_ as she brings her arm up and flicks it, sending rune-engraved steel towards the metal helm glinting in the sunlight. Yet she's too late, always too late, and Elizabeth reaches towards her even as her form disappears, the heavy tang of a teleportation spell making Moth's nose burn, the dull thud of her blade biting into the window frame unbearably loud in her ears. Elizabeth — _summer morning, celebrations underway as they hide in the garden, the little princess weaving crowns of flowers and naming her queen of the forest_ — Elizabeth is — _Meliodas finding her within the wreckage, a wailing infant clasped in her arms, despair a leaden weight on her limbs —_ Elizabeth is gone.

There is a blast of magic and cold and utter fury and she does not know if it is her or Meliodas who screams.

Or both of them.


	4. Outbreak

**A/N:** Slight warnings for violence.

* * *

She hits the ground running, magic snapping the air around her as she sends a flurry of ice at the knights foolish enough to stand in her way. "Don't kill anyone!" Meliodas shouts, and she grits her teeth and flips her dagger so the flat of it slams into a man's neck instead of the edge, leaving him unconscious yet alive. These are innocent of the crime that infuriates her, yet they wish to keep her from Elizabeth and her fury is a white hot thing that blinds her to their screams as the Sins tear through them. Moth darts and weaves, breaking bones and deflecting meager spells, her heart a drum in her chest beating _save her, save her, save her._ One is lucky enough to catch her arm with a wild swing of his axe, and he pays for it dearly, mists of red winding around his elbows and squeezing until they crack and he crumples with a wheezed scream. _I won't lose her again._

Dimly she is aware of Gowther's magic filling the air as she dashes through a now harmless crowd to scale the city walls. She will be more exposed on the roofs than the ground, but she knows she is more than capable of defeating any Holy Knight who dares to attack her, and she needs to reacquaint herself with the layout of Liones if she is going to find Elizabeth. Below her, Meliodas yells something that she does not hear, his words snatched away by the wind, the gesture he makes her only way of understanding his order. _Scout. Don't fight._ Her lips curl from her teeth as she drops to the roof and lands on silent feet. _Fuck that._

The tiles do not clatter beneath her as she runs. Moth had learned at a young age how to move without sound, how to mask her presence so she could not be traced, and she does so now, carefully fanning out her power. On the other side of the city is something familiar and strong that makes her pause, but what truly draws her attention are the flecks of darkness scattered throughout the streets, like miniature flickers of the fire that slumbers within Meliodas. The knights at Vaizel had been like that, as well, their eyes black and cruel, and she wonders what has happened to bring this vile magic to what was once a peaceful city.

And far beneath, a coiling violence that makes the hair on the back of her neck prickle. The Grand Masters have done this; do they understand what they wish to awaken and bring to the world? Shaking her head, Moth leaps to a tavern, standing at the edge to take in her surroundings.

Liones has always been prosperous, and that does not seem to have changed. Citizens mill about in the streets, staring with wide eyes and fearful whispers as the sounds of battle reach them through the wall that encircles the capitol. As far as she can see are buildings, stonemasons, blacksmiths, inns, and taverns, winding up the hill to the castle, perched in the center like an elegant sentinel. To the right on a cliff sits Merlin's old observatory, and she tugs her lip between her teeth and thinks. Where would they hold Elizabeth? If they wish to break the seal, the leftover magic from Merlin and her experiments would aid them. Yet there are dungeons beneath the palace with walls thick enough that any cries for help would go unheard. It will also be the most guarded. Moth glances once more at the observatory before turning her back and setting off.

A princess belongs in a palace, after all.

She is halfway there when lightning arcs towards her. With no time to dodge, she takes the brunt of the blow, skidding across the tile as it slams against her chest. Across from her, Gilthunder stands with his sword pointed at her, his expression cold, and she remembers the boy who followed Meliodas with adoration in his eyes and shakes off the grief that stings as sharply as his magic. "This won't end well," she warns him, and he tilts his head.

"Won't it? You are a traitor and I . . ." He brings the blade parallel to his shoulders, holding the hilt firmly with both hands. "I am now stronger than the Seven Deadly Sins." Her eyes narrow; Meliodas had given that phrase to Gilthunder as a gift, and she recognizes their meaning and lets her power curl around her, searching. There must be a curse, and she will find it and tear it apart.

Just as she was made to do.

"So be it," she mutters.

He lunges, and she meets him in the middle. _Parry, strike, parry, strike,_ bearing down on him so he has no time to summon any more lightning to his aid. He had said those words before, in the Forest of White Dreams, and as their blades flash in the sun she searches for what it is that holds him hostage. _Help me._ The plea in his declaration keeps her from attacking with his full strength. Elizabeth told her how her sisters were being held by the Grand Masters, and Gilthunder had always loved the eldest, Margaret.

There, in the corner of her eye, floats an ungainly crow, malevolence radiating from it. Turning her back to Gilthunder — feeling the white hot line of pain as his sword bites into her shoulders — she hurls a dagger with lethal accuracy, watching the explosion of feathers as it strikes true, and the magic that rips from it sounds like a scream of rage. As her flesh knits together, she turns to find Gilthunder lowering his sword, his expression stricken.

"Princess Margaret is still —"

Moth cuts him off impatiently. "She will be fine. With one chimera gone, the other won't last, and from the sounds of things, there's a magician battling in the East quadrant."

His jaw squares as he nods. "I will aid whoever is fighting them. It's no doubt that wretched Vivian."

"Vivian?" Moth struggles to remember, coming up with a hazy picture of a plain face hovering at Merin's side. "She's still a fool, then. Go."

Yet he hesitates for a moment before he says quickly. "Princess Elizabeth was in the castle dungeon, but there was a scuffle there before I was sent here. Perhaps she escaped."

Moth nods once, watching as he heads off before turning her attention to the palace in the distance. Diane and King are fighting nearby, their energy swirling with three signatures she recognizes from Vaizel and one that belongs to Dreyfus, while Meliodas is entangled with Hendrickson, the mage who is probably Vivian, and one she does not know that flows like sunlight. Where should she go? Whichever choice she makes, someone she cares for will suffer, and she closes her eyes, wishing in that moment that she could be as assured as Meliodas, who would no doubt know exactly what to do. _And he would go to Elizabeth,_ she thinks. Her back still aches from Gilthunder's blow, yet she takes off, darting agilely from roof to roof, her eyes focused on the castle. _Save her._

She does not make it far. Halfway towards her destination, she is forced to a halt by a mountain of debris and a blast of magic that nearly sets her ablaze. It _reeks_ of King; Moth turns to scan the horizon, searching for him, and finds a flower towering over the town, two small figures clashing in its shadow. With a huff, she picks her way quickly through the rubble, pausing only to hold a large beam off of the ground so a family can escape from the ruins of their home. Then she is in what was once a bustling market, only it is gone. Near her is a broken Gowther, two knights she remembers from Vaizel, and a grievously wounded Diane. Across the square is King, locked in combat with another fairy clad in green.

Knowing that he can handle his own battles, she turns her attention to the wounded. Diane is first, and Moth uses what little healing she knows to knit the hole in her stomach back together, waiting until the giantess gives her a faint smile to focus on the others. Gowther is easy enough, as he is not made of true flesh, but an organic substitute that she can repair without breaking a sweat, yet the knights are barely breathing. Moth runs her hands along their armor, frowning as her magic is rebuffed. _Poison?_ Chewing her lip, she weaves a barrier around them to protect them from wayward swords — a green one ricochets from the writhing air a hair's breadth from her neck — and leans down to press her lips over the woman's, inhaling deeply. Then she does the same to the man, feeling the familiar death-sick of toxins swirling through her blood, before tilting her head back to exhale heavily, red mist coalescing in front of her face before disappearing.

"You're . . ." the man wheezes. Moth peers at him curiously, pleased to see his color returning. "Crow . . .?"

"Hush," she says.

His eyes flutter closed, but it is not the sleep of the dead, so she stands and glances up once more before darting through an alley nearby. She has lost time, caring for them, and irritation blooms beneath her skin at her carelessness. Elizabeth, she is meant to be finding Elizabeth, not interfering in situations where she isn't needed, and she struggles to keep her earlier pace, the toll of breathing in the poison killing those knights making itself known. Soon she will be useless, asleep on her feet. She must find Elizabeth first, and get her to the safety of the Boar's Hat.

Her dedication is her undoing. If Moth had not been so focused on getting to the palace, she would have felt the malignant energy. If she had not stopped to help the knights, or Diane, or Gilthunder, she would not have been so tired, and would have noticed the danger. She is not a Holy Knight anymore, or a member of the Seven Deadly Sins, and yet here she is, saving people and ridding them of curses like the witches from her grandmother's stories. Of course, none of that will matter if _Elizabeth's_ curse activates, which it will if Moth does not get to her in time. Then there is a sudden, white-hot heat in her side and her world is flung upside down, and she does not realize she has been hit until the dust settles around her and the taste of blood fills her mouth.

"Elizabeth," Moth breathes.

* * *

Moth watches as Hawk is hit with the demon magic sent by Hendrickson, his body crumbling as it collapses. She lays in the dirt with the other Holy Knights, as if she was still one of them. Moth has never truly liked him, but there is an undeniable debt that is owed to him and his mother for taking them in and sheltering them for almost a decade, and she pushes herself to her feet, ignoring how her body screams for relief, her bones cracking into place with an agonizing slowness. Then there is a wave of light, and horror churns within her gut as she lifts her gaze to Elizabeth, forcing herself to meet the symbol that glow a sinister golden from the symbol swirling over her pupil.

After that comes a rage she knows all too well as she shifts her gaze towards Hendrickson. _How dare you,_ a furious hiss within her mind. _How dare you try to take them from me. They are mine!_

Meliodas must feel the same way, because he is right beside her as she flings herself towards what was once Hendrickson, her magic cold and sharp and murderous, and she registers the surprise on the Grand Master's features when she kicks him hard enough to shatter his ribs.

Then Meliodas yanks her away, his snarl of Elizabeth's name all she needs to twist and dart back to the princess, catching her as she sways on her feet. Only one eye bears the mark, thank the gods, because it is too soon, Moth's heart could not bear another tragedy so shortly after meeting her again. She holds her close, hiding Elizabeth's face against her shoulder as Meliodas takes the brunt of spell after spell, and when his eyes lock with hers she gathers her power close and sends it in a blast of crimson sparks that rip through his body before curling around Elizabeth. Even with her protection and the magic she huffs, the shockwaves of _Revenge Counter_ threaten to send them stumbling to the ground.

Then it is over, the end of the battle signaled by the thud of Meliodas against the churned earth and Elizabeth's cry of his name.

* * *

Moth says nothing as Meliodas gently lifts the princess and carries her into the Boar's Hat. She does not speak as she bandages Elizabeth's wounds, ignoring how he hovers at her shoulder like an ungainly pest, nor does she acknowledge him as she heads down the stairs, a bowl of bloody water clasped carefully in her hands. She takes it to the kitchen to rinse it out, and when she returns, he is pouring himself a drink, a second, already full glass sitting by his elbow on the bar.

"You're a fool," she tells him. Her body is aching and heavy, as is her heart, and he watches her carefully as she slides onto a stool. "We both are, to put her at risk like that."

His lips twist with a self-loathing that echoes her own. "We didn't know," he offers dully.

She would snarl at him, if she had the energy. Instead, she sends him an exhausted glare. "Bullshit. I told you from day one that we shouldn't have kept her with us! Instead we pulled her into one dangerous situation after another. If we had been seconds slower, if we hadn't found her, she would have —"

"Enough!" Meliodas slams his hand on the counter, making her jump. "We _were_ on time, we _did_ find her. That's what's important." He softens his voice to add, "What do you think would have happened if we had turned her away? She would have been captured much sooner, and probably killed."

"She's going to die, anyway."

The words hang bitterly in the air between them, and Moth regrets them as soon as she's said them. He looks at her, half-furious and more than a little hurt, and she drops her gaze to the polished wood. "Not this time." His reply is firm. "This is the last one."

She could argue with him, bring up how he said those words with Elisheva, Elspeth, _Liz,_ but she has grown tired of this same discussion, this same open wound that she worries like a blister. "I don't know how you've done this for three thousand years," she says wearily, and his brows furrow.

"Because I love her," he responds, as though it is as simple as that.

 _Perhaps it is,_ Moth muses, and rubs her temples as pain creeps through them. "What is it like," she wonders aloud, "to love someone like that?"

There's a thick silence before he says, "It destroys you." She glances up, stunned, but he is already turning away, and he sounds cheerful when he adds, "I'm going to check on her. Are you?"

"No. I'm not the one she needs to see right now."

"Suit yourself. But try to get some rest. You look like hell."

Moth frowns, uncertain of whether or not he's being sincere, and then he is gone up the stairs and she is alone in the bar, the pulse behind her eyes growing in intensity until it is blinding. Tired to her core, she pushes herself on unsteady feet and stumbles to her own room, waving a hand so the curtains pull themselves closed to block what little light comes through the window and collapsing onto the bed, still clothed in her torn, bloody tunic.

There will probably be a feast later, and grieving for those who were lost, and a toast for the knights, who saved Liones. Moth will no doubt be included in the cheers, a fact that has never bothered her despite not being one of the Sins; as always, she had acted as their agent, and that is enough for her to be considered part of their order. But for now she listens to the creaking around her as the tavern shifts and settles and allows its music to lull her into a fitful sleep. Her mind drifts, lives and loss flickering dimly within her thoughts as she sinks into a suffocating warmth.

When she blinks into awareness, she is on the shores of a lake. It's one that she recognizes, having seen it every day of her brief childhood, the clear, crystalline waters framed by dense forest, mountains breaking the sun so it glides across its surface in streams of light. Loch Caim, the founding place of her Clan and the home of so many legends. She stands and lets the cool waters lap at her feet, the lack of birdsong or even waves creating a silence that is oppressive and ominous. _Look,_ a voice — the breeze? — whispers, and she is suddenly certain that she should not be here, in this place of death. _How sweet forgetting must be._ Unwilling, yet unable to tear her eyes away, she stares at the lake as bubbles disturb it mere feet from where she is.

Slowly, a figure begins to emerge. Moth knows it is a woman from the gown that clings to its body, but the face is obscured by tangled black locks matted with seaweed and blood. More of the crimson liquid stains its arms, its legs, coats its hands in glistening gauntlets and dyes the fabric of its dress. It does not speak, and she stares at it with a sort of horrified fascination. "Do I . . ." she starts to say, and snaps her mouth shut when it turns its head towards her and takes one shambling step forward. Then another, and another, and a low rasping noise escapes it as though it has either forgotten how to breathe or is trying to laugh. Moth tries to back away, but there is something at her back, something large and solid that curls itself around her shoulders and holds her in place as the thing moves towards her at a crawl. _Wake up,_ she thinks desperately. _Wake up, oh gods, wake me up, please, if it touches me it will kill me._

Soon, they are eye to eye. A red finger raises, pressing to her forehead, and the mark there flares like a red-hot brand as the thing wheezes. _Moth . . . Moth . . ._

"Moth!" With a strangled scream, she lurches forward, and Meliodas lets out a curse as their heads collide.

"What the fuck?!" She stares at him for a moment, struggling to breathe, seeing the figure in every shadow that flickers in the corners. Then she lunges and throws his arms around his neck, pressing her face to his chest to hide the tears that stain her cheeks as sobs wrack her frame. It is not the first nightmare she's had, but it is the worst in a while, and she draws what comfort she can from him. The dream was too vivid, too real, and even now the skin that thing touched burns dully; he holds her carefully, like he did when she was nothing more than a living ghost, letting her cry without any sort of remark. But it's not only fear that keeps her locked in place. There is that, in abundance, and beneath is a sorrow so profound that for a moment she is sure Elizabeth has died, because those are the only moments when her world falls apart like this.

"Okay," he says soothingly as he strokes her hair. "It's okay. You're safe now."

Eventually, her tears run out. With a small hiccup, she draws away, dashing angrily at her cheeks. Moth hates to cry, because it solves nothing, and it has been so long since she has that she'd nearly forgotten how _draining_ it is, as though the release of fear and rage and sorrow is a physical burden she must bear. "I'm sorry."

"Do you want to talk about it?" She shakes her head, and Meliodas shrugs. "Suit yourself. I came to get you for dinner. Elizabeth is up, though she probably shouldn't be, and she's insisting we all eat together before she goes back to the palace in the morning. There's a lot of rebuilding to be done, and I'm sure the people are eager to see the king and his daughters alive and well."

"I'll be up in a moment." He doesn't move, and she shoves at him with a sigh. "Really. I want to rinse my face and change into something clean first."

He studies her for a few moments longer before standing and leaving the room. Once he's gone, she sinks back against the pillows with a groan, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. She has not thought of Cailleach in centuries, so why dream of it now? And what was that creature in the lake? Why was it so familiar?

The spots dancing behind her lids bring her no answers, merely more questions that swirl and dance tauntingly out of reach. Yet more confusing by far is the presence that had kept her locked in place, like a cage of comfort, so familiar that she feels that she should know what it was. The uncertainty lingers as she splashes cold water against her face, as she carefully plucks a clean tunic and leggings from her wardrobe and pulls them on, as she combs her fingers through her hair and makes her way to the bar, which is alight with joy and drunken laughter.

It lingers as Elizabeth brings her a bowl of stew and a pint of ale, unrelenting until the princess smiles at her. Then it abates, enough for her to listen to the chatter around her and feel the undercurrent of sorrow that taints the otherwise cheerful atmosphere. Hendrickson is gone, Dreyfus is gone, and with them went the Coffin and a handkerchief with Elizabeth's blood, and her heart sinks at the realization that, as always, she had been too late.

Moth eats slowly, catching Meliodas' gaze as he works behind the bar. Within his eyes swirls the same worry that colors her thoughts. The crossing of the stars, the use of demon blood, the seal . . . She sets her spoon back into her bowl, her appetite gone.

 _The fires of war are burning again._


	5. Lull

**A/N:** Happy holidays!

* * *

Deathpierce's words linger on Moth's mind long after the confrontation with him has ended. Despite his polite apology, there had been an unmistakable admonishment, one that she knows is well-earned, and she mulls over it as Bartra rambles another prophecy that the Sins will need to prevent. They had been careless in battling with Hendrickson; the loss of so many civilians and knights proves that much. Elizabeth had cried as she healed Howzer, the mutilated corpses of the Dawn Roar members who had gone with him to escort Dreyfus adding more grief to an already unbearable amount. Moth had watched as Meliodas did his best to soothe her, aware that it was their fault. So much bloodshed, all on their shoulders.

When Meliodas taps her elbow, she jolts. The meeting is over, it seems, and she follows behind the others as they leave the palace. Diane is questioning Merlin about what Bartra's words meant while Meliodas studies the sky, and Moth thinks that this is where the end begins. A coming age of darkness, a war, more loss to endure. How much longer can they go on, she wonders, leaving their comrades dead in their wake?

How much longer until they break under the strain?

Suddenly, the ground lurches beneath her feet. It writhes and groans, the buildings vibrating over their foundations, sending dust clouding through the air as what can only be the vilest of earthquakes shakes Liones to its core. Lanterns extinguish themselves and darkness blankets the sky, midnight at noon, and Moth buckles beneath the weight of it, her breath coming in heaving, labored pants as spots dance in front of her eyes. Magic, deep and awful and menacing, presses against her, something so sinister that her limbs seize with the instinctual need to fight of flee. _Something is horribly wrong._

But beneath the fear is elation: _at last,_ a tiny voice whispers, _they are coming._ It is not a pleasant joy, but a bloodthirsty one that makes her skin crawl with anticipation. All at once she tastes iron and hears the sound of screams, a cold, leaden weight creeping through her veins. Dimly she is aware of the others, frozen in place as the tremors begin to subside, as the hot metal tang of magic fades from the air.

"What . . .?" Diane whimpers.

Meliodas leans down to place his hand between Moth's shoulders, and she feels his fury in the tremble of his limbs. "They were awakened," he growls, so quietly that only she hears him. "Can you stand?"

"Yes." She pushes herself to her feet, embarrassment heating her neck to have collapsed in front of her comrades like a faint-hearted girl and not the warrior she is. "Who are _they?"_

But he shakes his head, making a motion with his hand that she knows means he will talk to her later. As they resume their trek to the Boar's Hat, she's not at all surprised to find that some have fainted in the street, their bodies too weak to handle the potent magic that tore through the air. If they are lucky, they will recover. If not, they will die, and there is nothing to be done about it. Elizabeth would no doubt try to save them, but Moth knows that she herself cannot, so she hardens her heart and continues on, like she has so many times before.

Finally, she and Meliodas are alone. He busies himself behind the bar as she takes her customary seat on a stool and laces her fingers beneath her chin. Her temples are throbbing, but she does her best to ignore it as she asks, "The seal was broken, wasn't it?"

His hands pause in their work. "Yes," he says quietly. She closes her eyes, remembering the tales her grandmother told her of the sacrifices made to seal away the demons, her failure to prevent their return a bitter weight in her chest. "The Ten Commandments, the vilest of the Demon Clan's soldiers, have been freed. We'll stay here for a few more days to resupply, and then we'll move out, try to head them off before they cause too much destruction."

There are a million questions bubbling behind her lips, but she knows that this is a time to be cautious, because any one of them could shut down her chances to learn the truths that have been hidden from her. She knows that if she presses, he will turn her away, and no amount of cajoling or cleverness will reopen this door. "What should I know about them?"

Meliodas gives her a considering look. "Each of them holds a portion of the Demon King's power. It makes them stronger and curses anyone who falls under a certain set of criteria, including the Commandments themselves. They were hand-picked, and are utterly lethal. Underestimating them would be a fatal mistake."

"I see." There's a faint flicker of awareness within her, and she says idly, "It's unfortunate that the Archangels are gone, but I suppose that's best if we want to avoid another incident like Stigma."

He goes very, very still, the glass in his hands cracking as his grip tightens slowly around it. "What did you say?"

"The slaughter," she replies. The words are unbidden, dragging out of her, each one accompanied by a bolt of pain behind her eyes that confuses her, even as she rubs her temples. "Don't you remember? You were there."

He studies her, his brow pinched. Then he relaxes with a little laugh that sounds forced. "I forgot that your Clan kept extensive records. I'm surprised you remembered that, given how long it's been since you saw them, but I guess memories are funny like that."

"No, I —"

"Anyway," he cuts her off, "there's no need to get worried about the Commandments, since you won't be fighting them. I want you to keep an eye on things here in Liones."

Bewildered by his abrupt dismissal, she says, "I thought Merlin created the Sins in case this ever happened? Shouldn't I be there?"

"Nope." He pops the 'p'. "Someone has to protect Elizabeth, after all."

"There's an army of knights for that."

"And you don't like fighting, anyway."

"Only if it's unnecessary."

His tone is sharp when he snaps, "You aren't a member of the Sins, Moth. You won't be going."

"That's bullshit!" she cries. Her hands drop to her lap, where she curls her fingers into the fabric of her leggings to hide how they tremble. "I might not be a Sin, but I've fought in every battle alongside you. If you don't want me to participate in this one, at least give me a reason that's genuine!"

Meliodas says nothing for a very long time, and she waits, her skin crawling and her heart heavy. _Please,_ she thinks, _please, just tell me the truth._ Finally, he says, "You'd be a liability. I can't focus on fighting them if I'm worried about what you're doing, where you've run off to. So you'll stay in Liones and watch over Elizabeth, and that's final."

 _That's final,_ like she is nothing more than an errant child throwing a tantrum. Moth stands, feeling the heat of tears stinging her eyes, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. "You can't be honest with me about this, can you?" He doesn't meet her gaze, and that's all the confirmation she needs. "In Danafor, Merlin spoke to you about the Commandments. I know that much. And when she showed up in Liones, it was with the same warning. Each time, you lied to me until I stopped asking questions, and I've let it go because I thought there was a reason for it, but if you truly think so little of me . . ."

She trails off, shaking her head. Meliodas calls out to her as she walks out of the tavern, and she ignores him, and Diane and Elizabeth as she passes by them on the path.

What makes this worse, what truly hurts about his dismissal, is that he has always been upfront with her, no matter what she has asked about, except for this. And she cannot understand why he feels the need to keep her in the dark in such a dangerous time. She wanders aimlessly into Liones, keeping to the alleys to avoid being hailed by anyone, and when she reaches a blacksmith's forge, she pauses. Then she heads in.

A man with honey colored hair and a beard streaked with gray is busy hammering the curves out of a sword when she enters. He halts his work, his hand still gripping his hammer, and eyes her with some suspicion. "What cannae do fer ya, lass?"

"Do you make daggers?"

"Aye." He drops the sword into a bucket of oil. "And ye won't find none better, I kin promise ye that. Who's it for, if ye don't mind my askin'?"

"Myself. Mine were damaged in the recent battle, shattered really, and I need a new set." She steps over to the wall, studying the swords and axes with curiosity. "These are lovely."

"Thank ye kindly."

"How quickly could you make them?"

"Depends on the pay." He watches her consideringly. "Two daggers, six gold. More if ye be needing them sooner than a month."

"If I needed them by tomorrow?" she asks.

The blacksmith shakes his head. "Twenty gold. More'n most can afford."

Moth takes the coin purse from her belt,the reward she'd earned for her part in the battle with Hendrickson, counting out the required amount and adding a few extra. "I can give you the old ones for easier measuring regarding the hilt," she says as she lays the gold on the counter next to her. "But I need them to be strong, and there are runes I can provide that need to be engraved into the blade."

He seems startled. Then he breaks into a deep, rumbling laugh. "I'll be damned, lass, but if ye need 'em, I'll make 'em. What name should I put them under?"

"Moth. If they're delivered, send them to the Boar's Hat."

The blacksmith hesitates for a moment. "Moth, eh? Funny, my boy was talkin' about a Moth fore he left this mornin'. Said she saved 'im after he was poisoned." She does not reply, thinking of hazel eyes and a stunned, disbelieving gratitude, and he shrugs. "Might have been he was mistaken. Boy's head is as empty as a barrel full o' holes. I'll get yer daggers and have 'im bring 'em on the morrow."

"Thank you."

She draws the shattered hilts from their holsters and sets them next to the gold before exiting the shop. If she adds twenty-odd years and a belly, the man's resemblance to Howzer is uncanny, and she mulls over that as she heads to a nearby bakery for some bread. Construction is well underway in the city, masons and carpenters hauling their supplies up rickety scaffolds, carting stones up with lengths of rope, and she dodges through them as her mind wanders. Moth can barely remember the faces of her parents. Were they as similar to her as Howzer to his father? Or was there little resemblance between them at all? There's a pang as she tries to recall her mother and finds that she cannot; when had she forgotten?

The baker hands her a fresh sweetroll for two silvers, and she cradles it carefully as she stands outside, studying the sky. Yet when she tries to take a bite, the world spins around her, shadows dancing in the corners of her eyes as a burst of agony lances through her skull. _Another headache, so soon? Why is this happening?_ "Again?" a male voice, deep and smooth, laughs. "You certainly are fond of those, aren't you?"

Moth turns to see who has spoken, placing a hand on the wall for balance. Shocked to find no one — someone had spoken, someone right behind her, they _should_ be there — she stares blankly at the worn stone. The city rights itself, her vision clearing as she realizes she is alone, the sweetroll on the dirt and the only people nearby those working on repairing a tavern, who give her strange looks as she fights through a wave of nostalgia and nausea. The ache in her temples subsides to a dull throbbing, and she breathes shallowly through her nose until her stomach settles and she feels stable enough to walk. There is a name burning on the tip of her tongue, just out of reach, and she thinks of Meliodas' wanted poster and does not know why. _What is happening to me?_

* * *

The next morning, the door to the tavern is flung open while she polishes tables, the bell above it chiming sweetly as Howzer steps through. He's holding a package wrapped in butcher's paper carefully in his hands, his brows furrowed and his tongue poking through his lips as he tries to balance it and shut the door behind him. Then he looks up and spots Moth. "Hey!" he calls cheerfully. "I knew it had to be you when dad gave me these to deliver."

She sets the rag she'd been using onto the nearest table — not that she'd actually been cleaning, just wiping mindlessly at an already spotless area as she stared at the wanted posters and tried to figure out why Meliodas' was suddenly such an eyesore — and moves to take the package from him. Before she can, he places it on a table with a grin. "You'll love these," he tells her. "My old man can be tough, but he makes beautiful weapons."

"I remember," she replies absently as she begins to unravel the twine. "He made them for the knights sixteen years ago."

"Still does." Howzer's chest puffs with what she assumes to be pride, but his eyes are nervous as she removes the lid to study the daggers beneath.

They are well and truly lovely, sleek and lethal steel polished to a high shine, the hilts wrapped with dark leather and the runes, to her delight, carved so masterfully that the edges are smooth and flow with the rest of the blade. "These are perfect. Tell him I said so, and that he undercharged for them."

"Aw, nah." He flushes, and she takes that in, finding it curiously endearing. "You saved my life, and a lot of others. Of course he'd wanna give you a discount."

Moth laughs softly. _Twenty gold is a discount?_ "I see."

He runs his fingers through his hair, and she takes in both the way the muscles of his arm flex and the hopeful grin on his face. "But I'd have made him give you one anyway, just for being pretty."

It's a sweet sentiment, an amusingly awkward attempt at flirting. For a moment, she entertains the thought of taking him to her bed. He is charming enough, tall and broad in the way she prefers, and she wonders if his enthusiasm carries over when he's with a lover, or if he's had a lover. And it's been nearly two decades since her last, a man who had died when Danafor was overrun. Thinking of him brings a pain that tempers her blooming interest, however, so she merely takes the daggers out to test their balance. "How are you feeling?"

Howzer pauses, staring at her blankly before he understands. "Oh! Good as new. The princess has some really strong magic, doesn't she? And you, well . . . I think you, uh . . . With the poison?"

"Yes," she replies simply.

His face breaks into a large grin. "Wait until I tell Gil that one of his idols kissed me." Moth gives him a dry look, and he stammers, "I mean, saved me. Because that's all you were doing, right? Right. I should, uh . . . I should go back. Help my dad out. He's got some other deliveries I need to run, and . . ."

He's halfway to the door already, waving his hands in a flustered way, and she cannot help the smile that curls her lips as she says, "Maybe next time you'll be conscious."

His mouth falls into a little 'o' of surprise. Then he clears his throat, starts to say something, hesitates, and turns on his heel to leave. She laughs quietly when he's gone, shaking her head as she slides the new daggers into their sheaths and wonders when the last time she'd actually felt _any_ sort of interest in a mortal was.

* * *

She's just finished weaving magic into the runes when Meliodas returns. He leans on the door, watching her, and she pretends that she has not noticed him while she checks her work and stretches her back, which aches from sitting for so long in one position. Their argument from the day before is still fresh on her mind, and Moth has no desire to speak with him if he's going to continue dancing around the issue like she's too much of a fool to know that he's being dishonest. Then he sighs, and comes to sit next to her, picking up one of the blades and staring at it thoughtfully. "I don't know much about runes," he says, "but these are ones for hunting demons, right?"

"Not exactly." She takes it back from him, pointing to them one by one. "Durability, true aim, keen edge, spell tolerance, trace. They'll be useful against demons, yes, but none of them are explicitly for that purpose. They're actually quite generic."

He hums. "Good thinking. I'll try to keep the Commandments away from Liones, but if they get by me —"

"By _us,"_ she corrects sharply.

The room falls into the same silence that exists before a storm. Moth stands, taking the oils and herbs she'd used for enchanting and putting them back on her shelves, hating how her heart pounds as she waits for him to say something. "I only want to keep you safe," he murmurs. "Is that so wrong?"

The subtle attempt at manipulation makes her hackles rise. "You told me fifty years ago that there was nowhere safer for me than with you."

"That was before they were released," he replies wearily. "Moth . . . These demons, they're powerful. I don't know if I'll be able to fight them, certainly not if it's all of them at once. That's why I didn't want to try to use them twenty years ago, when Merlin suggested that as a way to break the curse. I'm not who I once was."

"If they're so strong, shouldn't you have been one of them?" He doesn't speak, and she fidgets with the bottles in front of her, picking them up and turning them in her hands. "You told me that you were alive three thousand years ago. So you must have known them then, right?"

"Yes," he mutters.

"Did you fight alongside them?"

"Yes," he says again, exasperated.. "But that was when I was . . . Not as pleasant as I am now. I can't promise that I can protect you, or Elizabeth. Which is why I want you _here._ If the worst comes to pass, if I die, then you can take her and hide somewhere until I revive. If I even do. I don't know if I will if one of them kills me."

"It's that dangerous?" She turns to face him and he nods, his eyes grave. "Then that's all the more reason I should be with you. If the Commandments can curse others, you'll need someone versed in breaking them, and," she holds up a finger when he opens his mouth, "it will be easier to hide Elizabeth if we can keep her on the move. Liones might be a castle, but we both saw how easy it is to breach its defenses. Will those walls really hold up against the Commandments?"

"No." He sighs as he pushes himself to his feet. "If you're this set on going, I won't keep trying to stop you. You'd just figure out how to follow me anyhow. But Elizabeth stays here. So you need to decide who you _really_ want to protect, me . . . or Elizabeth."


	6. Delirium

**A/N:** I'd like to apologize for the delay with this chapter! I injured my hand at work and have been adjusting to working my phone instead of my laptop while I heal. I hope what happens makes up for my tardiness, and I wish you all a happy New Year!

* * *

She does not speak to Meliodas for two days. He tries on the first, greeting her in the morning, teasing her about the bouquet of flowers waiting for her on a table, only to fall silent when she drops them into a bin and stalks out of the tavern. There's another attempt at conversation when she returns, but Moth is in her room with the door firmly shut before he has finished his sentence, and she wakes the next morning to cold, stony silence. Good, she thinks as she viciously scrubs a pan from the night before. If all he's going to do is lie and twist the truth to get what he wants, he can keep his mouth shut. Running the bar that night is easy with Ban playing the buffer between them, even if their refusal to speak to one another irritates him, and she even manages to avoid any probing questions from Elizabeth as she retires for the night.

The third day dawns bright and warm; Moth dons lighter clothes than usual as she decides to visit Merlin, selecting a simple white dress and forgoing shoes altogether. With one dagger in a holster on the arm and another clasped snugly against her thigh, she sets off, listening for the sound of Meliodas' quiet snoring from above before slamming the front door just to wake him, to irritate him. She knows it's childish, but there's a small amount of vindication as his curses reach her from an open window.

Morning dew soaks her feet as she walks, cool and refreshing. Despite the sun still being low in the sky, it promises a punishing heat later on, so she sticks to the shaded parts of the path until they run out. By then, she can see the chimneys of Merlin's new observatory, and she makes it there without much hassle other than coming face-to-face with a deer that startled her as much as she startled it. Magic is so potent here that she can taste it in the back of her throat; like all of Merlin's spells, it is bitter, and clings no matter how much she swallows to clear it, like medicine on a dry tongue. From within the tower come the sounds of low mutterings and crashing glass. Grimacing, knowing that Merlin is more than likely in a foul mood, Moth pushes open the door and steps into the stifling laboratory.

"Unless you can tell me how to properly mix monkshood and belladonna without creating a poisonous gas, I have no time for you," Merlin snaps over her shoulder.

Moth pauses, mulling over why the mage is attempting to create an elixir for eternal life before deciding she doesn't particularly care. It's not as though Merlin would answer honestly if she asked, anyway. "Dry them out first and crush them before mixing them in wine over a low flame," she says as she wipes her feet on the mat. "It won't completely eradicate the issue — they're both toxic — but it will make it manageable."

Merlin waves her hand, and the pot and its noxious contents disappear. Then she turns to study Moth critically, her eyes narrow and sharp, and Moth waits patiently for the interrogation to begin, if only because she knows that it's her chance to ask the questions weighing on her mind. "Did you fight with the Captain again?"

The way she says it, as though Moth purposefully caused an argument, sends a flush of temper to her cheeks. "I wouldn't call it a fight. He decided to lie to me. I'm allowed to be upset over that."

Merlin ignores her to glide across the room, the blatant display of magic another thing that irritates Moth. It's almost as though the mage must show that she is powerful instead of simply being such, and Moth cannot decide if the thought is warranted or the result of her frayed nerves. And she cannot afford to argue with her now; while there is no one she trusts less than Merlin, she is also the only other who might be able to shed some light on Meliodas' recent behavior.

"He is refusing to allow me to fight the Ten Commandments," she says, "though refusing might be the wrong word. It's more akin to manipulating. He's picking his words and twisting things to his favor to get what he wants."

"If he does not want you to fight, is it so difficult to remain here?" Moth clenches her jaw, and the mage sighs. "We will need Escanor to fight. Meliodas knows this, and he knows you cannot stand him. It's all well and good to say that you wish to fight, but history shows that you become rather flighty around Escanor, particularly at noon."

"Not when it matters," Moth mutters.

"Perhaps not." And, with that, the conversation is done. Moth places her hands on the table and stands, staring at Merlin's back as the mage sorts through a stack of books across the room. She recognizes Merlin's tone and knows that pressing will get her nowhere; the mage keeps her own counsel, and when her mind is set, she will not change it, no matter what her actions might cause.

Moth lingers for what must be a moment too long, because, to her surprise, Merlin asks, "Is that why you came? To seek an ally?"

"For answers," Moth responds. Merlin hums as she pages through a book, so she continues, "What happened to Stigma?"

Merlin pauses, her lips thinning. "A massacre. Too many conflicting agendas collided, and hundreds perished. Why?"

"It came up when I was talking with Meliodas. As did him fighting with the Commandments."

"Yes. He led them once." Stunned, Moth stares at her as a cold creeps through her limbs. "Elizabeth, the original Elizabeth, is why he left. I take it you didn't know?"

"No."

"I see."

"Is that why he doesn't want me to fight?" she asks. "If I only knew why, I could accept it. It would frustrate me, but I wouldn't . . ."

Merlin glances at her thoughtfully. "His reasons are his own. I would say that it is because he is afraid to lose you, as you have been with him for so long and know him better than anyone. He would rather have you furious with him than dead, or worse." With a sigh, the mage lowers herself to the floor, and she looks nearly kind as she reaches out to place a hand on Moth's shoulder. "You may stay here, if you wish, but I must go now."

There's a brief rush of air and then the mage is gone, likely to report their conversation to Meliodas, and Moth crosses her arms as she stares at the delicate instruments on the nearby table. Suddenly, she wants to smash them, rip them from the table and watch them shatter on the floor, so much so that she starts towards them before realizing what she's doing and stops herself. Instead of following her urge, she heads out of the observatory to return to the Boar's Hat, where she immediately goes to her room and curls up on the bed.

First Meliodas, and now Merlin, though she expects nothing less from someone she cares for and cannot stand in equal measure. The mage had been someone she admired once, her grace and poise aspects that Moth, as a child, wished to one day imitate. Then had come Danafor and the meeting that had kept them from the city as Merlin and Meliodas argued and allowed Fraudrin to murder a woman they loved, and the lies in Liones years later, when the mage wanted to create an order of peculiar, powerful warriors. She had no doubt meant for Moth to join her, but she had refused, too wary of her motivations and her not-quite lies. Gripping the pillow tightly, she holds it to her face and closes her eyes; no truth anywhere, only the taste of lies like cold, bitter coffee on her tongue, and she feels the familiar burn of tears in the back of her throat.

* * *

This time, she's not surprised to find herself on the shores of Loch Caim. She has dreamt of it more and more in recent days, some of them pleasant and others leaving the rust tang of fear in her mouth, and she walks the shore until she reaches a place where rocks jut over the deep waters below. The lake is clear, yet she cannot see the bottom when she peers into it, the stone disappearing into its dark depths as something glides by just out of sight. Watching it brings a sense of peace, and she kneels down to dip her fingers into the cool water, the sensation of her worries being pulled away by the faint current pleasant and startling in equal measure. This is home, she thinks. This is where I should be. Then a twig snaps behind her and she jolts to her feet, whirling around to see what has joined her, praying it is not the bloodied woman.

A man stands an arm's reach away. His silver hair falls messily around his face, his strong chin littered with stubble and his dark coat open to expose the tanned skin of his chest. But it are his eyes that draw her attention, dark as pitch with flickers of blue within, and they, too, are focused on her, the shock she feels mirrored within them. "You . . ." he begins, his voice pleasantly deep, something she wants to sink into, and she reaches up without thinking to place her hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his ribs.

But it echoes, resonates, as though there is more than one, and Moth's brows furrow as she studies the dusting of hair under her fingers. "Don't I know you?" she murmurs. It feels as though she does; there is something so achingly familiar about him that tugs at her, like a ship caught in the ocean's tide.

His hand raises, but he does not quite touch her. "Who the fuck are you?" The anger beneath his words has her gaze snapping back to his face, where she finds a mixture of fury and disbelief. "Why the hell do you look like . . ." But he stops himself, stepping away from her abruptly.

Look like? The thought is gone as quickly as it comes, leaving a curious detachment to something that should elicit unease. Can she not feel it because this is a dream? "Moth," she says, and his eyes narrow.

"You should be dead," he hisses.

The words hit her like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs as her chest constricts. Before she can reply — and how she's supposed to say anything to that, she doesn't know — the ground lurches beneath her feet, sending her stumbling. The man reaches out, perhaps to grab her or perhaps to shove her, and she blinks and is in the tavern once more, the taste of ale and sleep sharp on her tongue, the scent of cloves lingering in her nose. For a moment, she is trapped between dream and reality, the warmth of him lingering so that she curls her fingers into fists to trap it against her palm, her heart hammering as a half-coherent apology forms against her lips. Then she rouses fully, sitting up and pressing sweat-damp hair from her eyes as she stares at the blankets and tries to think.

Realization comes suddenly. The face from her dream has been staring at her every day for five years, while she waited tables and cleaned the tavern and sat in the quiet dark to simply feel the weight of her existence. Moth remembers the first time she'd seen it, clutched in the hands of a bored knight with better things to do than hand out flyers at out of the way taverns, and she jolts from her bed and dashes to the bar, where she rips Meliodas' wanted poster from the wall.

She stalks over to where he is watching her and slams it on the counter in front of him. "Who is this?"

He gives her a funny stare. "That's me. Are you alright? You look like you've got a fever."

"No," she says, though whether in answer to his question or to deny his explanation, she doesn't know. "It's your wanted poster, yes, but who is it?" Meliodas blinks, and she grits her teeth at his ignorance, which is more than likely feigned. "If I took this and colored the hair silver and the eyes black, who would it be?"

"I dunno," he replies evenly. "You having funny dreams again?"

"This has nothing to do with that!" Fear raises her voice. Fear that he will lie to her once more, fear that her grasp on what is real is beginning to slip. "I saw a man who looked like this, and he told me that I should be dead and asked why I looked like . . . Looked like . . ." But the man hadn't said the name, she remembers. He'd stopped short of it, like he couldn't bear it.

Meliodas slowly reaches for the wanted poster. Then, to her dismay, he begins to shred it, carefully tearing it to tiny pieces that he deposits in the open oven behind him. "We should have gotten rid of these already," he says, but he won't meet her eyes. "As for your dreams, who knows? Maybe he was someone you knew as a child? Sometimes I see the people I've failed when I sleep, cursing me for their deaths."

"Maybe," she agrees unwillingly.

"I wouldn't dwell on it. While you were here, Gowther used one of his spells, and it knocked everyone out. It probably gave you nightmares, since you're pretty sensitive to magic." Moth frowns, yet the explanation seems plausible enough that she doesn't contest it. What else could it have been, anyway? "Have you decided?"

It takes a moment for her to understand. "I have. And I'm going to do both." He arches a brow, and she shrugs. "I'll ward the Boar's Hat to keep it safe and hide Elizabeth here. That way I can watch over her and help you. Thanks for Merlin, by the way."

"She means well," he says, but there's an apology in his tone and his eyes. "Are you really set on this?"

"I am," she replies firmly.

Meliodas groans, tilting his head back as if pleading with the heavens. "I'll be honest with you, I don't want Elizabeth coming along. What I have to do now is far more dangerous than anything we've taken on before, and I think she's safest here in the capitol. But," he smiles wryly, "I know I can't change your mind once it's set. So, if you want to do it that way, fine, on one condition." His agreement is too abrupt, too easy, but she doesn't want him to change his mind, so Moth inclines her head, and he says, "If I give you an order, no matter how much you hate it, how much you disagree, you follow it."

She considers that, her pulse pounding in her temples. Compromise, she thinks, and she wants to believe that he's finally being truthful with her. Maybe Merlin was right, and she was being overly obstinate. "Alright," she agrees. "Will you tell me about the Commandments? Their curses, at least?"

Meliodas studies her for several seconds before he nods. He grabs a bottle of ale and two glasses, and pours one for each of them. "I told you before that they're the Demon King's elite. He gifted each of them with a fragment of his power, and each decree, if you want to call it that, has a set requirement to activate. But they're double-edged; if a Commandment does anything to trigger it, they'll be afflicted as much as their enemies."

"To keep them obedient," she murmurs.

Meliodas hums in agreement. "Piety makes any who turn their back in battle completely devoted to the person they turned away from. Truth makes stone out of liars, Faith burns the eyes of those who lose it, Pacifism steals the years from those who try to kill." With each one, he ticks off a finger, and she finds his new candor relieving and suspicious. "Repose poisons the ones who hesitate, while Patience puts those who stop to think into an eternal sleep. Selflessness kills the selfish, Reticence robs those who express hidden thoughts of their voice, Purity crushes those who defile others. And Love . . ."

He hesitates, and Moth feels a sudden longing. Everything he has told her so far is, to her, like coming back to a childhood tale. She cannot remember the specifics but, as she thumbs through the pages, dim recollections surface. "Love?" she prompts.

"Anyone who holds hatred in their heart will have their strength taken from them," he says slowly. "That was the decree I held, three thousand years ago. It takes a heartless, callous person to master it, because of how easy it is to hate someone. I don't know who holds it now, but . . ."

She decides to ignore the bitter taste of his lie, if only to preserve this new peace between them. "They'll be the most dangerous for you."

He looks at her with surprise. "Yes," he agrees after a moment. "They will. And for you. Think of Hendrickson, or Ruin. Taking Elizabeth along . . . If they get their hands on her, you and I will be powerless to save her."

Moth opens her mouth to reply, but the tavern door bursts open to admit Merlin and Elizabeth, followed by Diane and a knight Moth recognizes as one of the Dawn Roar. "Good," Merlin says shortly, "you're here."

"Merlin?" Meliodas glances uneasily at Elizabeth.

The mage pays him no mind; in her hand is her sacred treasure, and she mutters a word that Moth understands too late is a teleportation spell. There is a sudden feeling of weightlessness as everything in the bar shifts, and Merlin's eyes are blazing as she stalks outside. Meliodas follows her, and Moth follows him, and the rest follow her, so that a small line trickles out to stand on Hawk Mama's back. The giant boar, Moth realizes with a start, is floating, but there is only a second to marvel at that before her eyes are drawn to the city below, which is definitely not Liones, and then to the monster currently lifting its arm to strike the wall in front of it. The same sinister magic from days prior surrounds it, and she lets out a shout when its fist collides with a weakening barrier.

"Moth!" Meliodas calls. She locks eyes with him for a moment and sees the indecision there. "Keep your promise."


	7. Ashes and Ghosts

**A/N:** A warning for this chapter: there's some mild NSFW content, though nothing explicit. I'd also like to thank everyone who has left encouraging words on this story, as those keep me going when I feel that this might not be worth it! I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

They had lost.

There is no way to dance around the utterness of their defeat, how the demon named Galand had swatted them as though they were no more than pesky insects. Not with Meliodas comatose in the room next door, or Merlin's petrified corpse on the bed in front of her. Moth looks at the rough, gray-green stone — even the individual locks of the mage's hair frozen in place — and realizes that they are more than outmatched. They are _nothing_ compared to the threat of the Ten Commandments. Three Sins and herself hadn't been able to put so much as a scratch on him; if not for Gowther, he would have slain them all, and there's a bitter sort of vindication at seeing Merlin proved so wrong. _An elite force to destroy the Ten Commandments,_ and all they'd done was amuse one of them for five minutes. It leaves her feeling more than a little hopeless.

As well as utterly exhausted.

She leaves Arthur to his grief to check on the pair in the other room. Elizabeth is sitting next to Meliodas' bed, a warm, healing glow emanating from her palms as she holds them over his chest. She'd done the same for Moth, once the dust had settled, and seeing the furrow in her brow as she works sets an ache brewing in the witch's heart. But she says nothing, knowing that the only thing that will ease the princess is Meliodas waking, instead closing the door and heading farther down the hall in search of a place to rest. A quick nap is all she needs; then she can strategize, plan her next move. Confronting Merlin would have been optimal, as the mage alone would know why she has weakened so — rubble in the air and screams and piercing golden eyes staring down at her — but rocks do not speak.

Moth finds a small bench set into an alcove, far enough away that Arthur's cries will not reach her yet close enough that she can be easily found. She curls up on it, too tired to mind the wooden slats that dig into her hips and back, and rests her head on her arms, keeping her back to the wall and a dagger in her fist. Then she closes her eyes, counting runes until she falls asleep.

* * *

"Welcome back." She blinks into awareness, pressing herself up as the sound of water lapping over rocks fills her ears. There is someone sitting behind her, their knees cradling her body, and before she can turn to look at them broad arms slide over her shoulders to pull her against an equally broad chest. "I've missed you."

"Mm." With a sigh, she settles against him, the dreams of fighting distant and easy to ignore in his embrace. "I'm sorry. I must have dozed off."

Lips trail along her cheek, his breath sending shivers up her spine as it ghosts across her skin. "You're here now. That's all that matters."

One of his hands slides down her arm in a slow caress that makes her neck flush. The intent behind the action is more than clear, but Moth finds that she does not mind; he is handsome, and it has been so very, very long since she allowed herself to fully enjoy the company of an attractive man. When she offers no protest, he hums and drags his fingers back up, over her stomach now, until the tips of them graze the skin between her breasts. "What are you doing?" she murmurs, lips curling into a smile, and his answering chuckle ruffles her hair.

"Enjoying the moment. The view from here is quite lovely."

His lips suction to her neck as he palms her breast, and Moth melts against him with a little sigh, letting her head fall against his shoulder to give him more room. The way he touches her is gentle, kindling her own desire slowly, the careful prick of his teeth against her throat and the slow way he squeezes her, his thumb teasing her nipple through the fabric of her dress, is heavenly. Then he cups her chin and turns her head, and she parts her lips eagerly when his own cover them. His tongue glides over hers when it flicks teasingly against her teeth, and impatience begins to build, her thighs rubbing together against the ache that blooms there. So she reaches between them to cup between his legs, pleased to find him hard under her fingers even if the size startles her.

He pulls from her mouth with a low groan. "You can never take things slowly, can you?"

"No, but it's your fault."

" _My_ fault?"

"Mhm." Moth turns, clambering over his lap and bracing one hand on his shoulders while the other works to unfasten his trousers. She should have kept those flowers, but Howzer doesn't know she threw them away, so perhaps he won't hold it against her. "You tease too much. Though I guess I should have expected it, seeing as you're —"

Then she freezes, her brows furrowing with confusion. The hair she sees is silver under the moonlight, not tawny, and the eyes that peer up at her from beneath the messy locks are black, not violet. It doesn't quite fill her with unease, but he is not who she was expecting, and she struggles to remember where she has seen him before as he reaches around her to cup her backside. "What's wrong?" He nips her jaw playfully, shifting so their bodies press together. "It's not like you to lose your nerve." She grips his shoulder and shoves, needing to see him fully; with a huff, he backs away, frowning up at her. "What's gotten into you?"

The words have barely left his mouth when he, too, goes very still, his eyes narrowing as he stares at her. It's as though he's actually _looking_ at her for the first time — hadn't he seen her before she'd woken? Wasn't he holding her? — assessing her, and she does the same, breathing very carefully to hide her dismay at being fondled willingly by a stranger and enjoying it. Though he's not _quite_ a stranger, but recognizing him from the dream where he told her she should be dead does not exactly make this any easier to understand. "You're the man from the wanted poster," she blurts, and he tilts his head.

"And you aren't Lucifer." The name sends an echo of awareness through her, like it belongs to someone with whom she was once very close. Her hands smooth over his coat, suddenly nervous, yet . . . This is only a dream. And he is handsome enough, and willing enough; surely continuing wouldn't be so bad? Moth leans down to press a tentative kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling his chest relax as he sighs. "How sweet you are."

"Who is Lucifer?" On the heels of that, "Who are you?"

He laughs, the sound pleasant and deep. "My name is Estarossa, little bird. And Lucifer _was_ the most important person I've ever known." To her surprise, he readjusts them both so she's once more facing the lake, and he rests his chin atop her head as he says, "I loved her, something I never should have done. But she was . . . Kind. When I was worthless, when I had nothing, I had _her."_ His voice falls into a rhythmic cadence as he speaks; it's almost as though she has somehow opened a sieve, because there is a painful edge to his words, though he does not stop. "She was meant to be my enemy. I should have hated her on sight, and yet she smiled at me. That was all it took.

"We met in secret." The playful nip he delivers to the top of her ear makes her yelp. "Like this. We would sneak away from the war to see one another, and she would always, always smile when we found each other. Like nothing else mattered to her. That's why, when she . . ."

He trails off, and the sorrow and fury answer her question before she's even asked. "How did she die?"

"I failed her. That damned Archangel I was meant to kill tore her heart out because of me. Because she loved a demon, her enemy. Because she wouldn't give me up to them when they found out." Then he shakes his head, and his fingers curl under her chin to make her look up at him. "But none of that matters. This is a damned good dream — you look enough like her, anyway — and I intend to enjoy it fully."

"I'm not a dream," Moth protests. "You are."

"Don't play coy."

Moth wriggles around so she is able to climb off of his lap; kneeling, she faces him, finding him watching her with a sort of detached amusement that is so at odds with the warmth from earlier that it makes her uneasy. "I promise you, I am _not_ a dream. My name is Moth. I don't know why I've made you up, or if you're a face from my childhood, but _I_ am the one who is sleeping in Camelot, this is _my_ dream. Though it's more vivid than I'd like."

"Camelot," he muses. "I don't suppose you've met Galand, have you?"

The name sends a bolt of fear through her that forces away the lingering cobwebs. Suddenly, everything around her is clear: the waves on the shore, the silence in the absence of birds or crickets, the mark that swirls over his forehead, so like the one Meliodas wears in his rage. "He attacked the city," she whispers. "He nearly . . ." _Killed me,_ she thinks, but the words lock in her throat. "How do you . . .?"

"It appears I should introduce myself properly." Slowly, he stands, dragging her along with him by her arms. "I am Estarossa, the one granted the decree of Love by the Demon King. Galand is my comrade, the Truth of the Ten Commandments."

 _It takes a heartless, callous person to master it._ "That's not true," she breathes. "You aren't heartless at all."

He looks at her, his expression of surprise morphing into one of stunned fury as he shakes her, and the world around her rattles, the ground vibrating beneath her feet, until she realizes he is not moving her at all, _she_ is moving, twisting and scattering away. She blinks, and the cool night is replaced by the stifling warmth of Camelot, the lake by stone walls, the simple dress by her torn tunic and leggings. Her mind is a jumble of thoughts and emotions that leave her feeling unsteady, so that she forgets the dagger she's holding and merely blinks up, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the afternoon sun. The blurred figure above her comes slowly into focus: Meliodas, and behind him, Elizabeth, one of them amused and the other concerned. "Good morning," he says cheerfully. "Did you have pleasant dreams?"

"No," she says shortly.

He hums and steps back to give her room to sit up. "Well, we need to go. Gowther did something to Diane, and she's taken off towards the ruins of Edinburgh, if Merlin's bearing is correct."

Moth looks up sharply. "Don't joke around. Merlin is dead."

"Actually," her gaze shifts to Elizabeth, who smiles hesitantly, "Lady Merlin managed to, um . . . Put her soul into her Sacred Treasure. So she's alright." When Moth says nothing, her lips twist down with worry. "Isn't that good news . . .?"

"Sure." Carefully, she pushes herself to her feet, but the aches that continue are more concerning than the way the world tilts around her. She is a witch, her injuries should have healed while she slept, and yet they throb beneath the bandages with a renewed ferocity after being slept on. "I have something I need to ask her."

* * *

"You _bitch."_ Moth starts forward, to the orb hovering in the air and the translucent mage behind it, her fingers twitching with rage. Meliodas places himself in front of her, his hands gripping her shoulders, and she tries to wrench free, ignoring Elizabeth's fright and the shouting of the others. She is going to shatter that orb, rip apart whatever magic binds Merlin to it. "You absolute fucking _bitch._ You knew! You knew all along, and _that's_ where you hid it?!"

"Moth, enough," Meliodas hisses, and she bares her teeth.

"Istar was the most logical choice," Merlin explains coolly. "Not only do they possess the magic necessary to contain yours, but your aversion to that place —"

"They _slaughtered_ my family, and you —"

"— ensured that you would not seek it out —"

"— _gave_ my power to them when they have _no right_ —"

"Enough!" Meliodas shouts. Both of them fall silent, Moth's chest heaving and Merlin unruffled. His eyes are sharp, displeasure clear as he stares at her, but she doesn't know if it's because she startled Elizabeth or lost her temper or that she did both. "There's nothing to be done about it now, and arguing is costing us time. Either _accept_ that we must go to Istar or take Elizabeth and return to Liones. Your choice."

"Don't patronize me," she snaps.

"Don't be a child," he bites back. "We have no other options. I _need_ that power to take on the Ten Commandments, and lashing out isn't going to change the fact that yours is there, too. A tantrum solves _nothing."_

Hurt, infuriated, she can only stare at him for several moments. Then she yanks out of his hold and turns on her heel, stalking into the Boar's Hat; bad enough to have part of her torn away without her consent and left with those who had left her orphaned and alone, but to be denied her grief by the one person she has always trusted? Yet she is stuck. If she _does_ leave, then it will feed into the belief that she is somehow unsuited for this, a spoiled child stomping her feet to get her way. If she doesn't, she will be forced into the land of the druids, the ones who came into her city and systematically murdered her people one by one until she was the last Witch in Britannia. With a cry, she collapses to the floor, holding her face in her hands as sobs wrack her body. The tears are more angry than sad, and utterly humiliating. What will shedding them solve? Will they only be one more mark against her reliability, which has never been doubted before?

By the time Hawk Mama comes to a halt, she has cried herself into a heavy numbness. No one had come to check on her, and that is fine — she hates crying and hates being seen doing it even more — and without the creaking of the tavern, she can hear the others chatting outside. _This is how it always is,_ she thinks as she stands. _This is how it always will be._ She steps quietly out of the tavern, noting how Merlin keeps a safe distance between them, how Elizabeth glances at her, concerned, yet says nothing, how Meliodas eyes her critically. Yet she does not acknowledge them, choosing instead to climb down and begin the trek to the arches in the distance. Moth wishes she were back in that dream, even if the person sharing it was her enemy. Estarossa had been kind, until the end, and had given her more honesty in five minutes than Meliodas has in five days.

There's an uncomfortable prickle beneath her skin as she passes through the arch and into Istar. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's as though her entire being rebels at the idea of being in this land, of being surrounded by the magic that she can only associate with death. On the path ahead of her are three people: a broad, simple-face man and two women, their faces so similar they must be sisters despite the contrasting colors of their hair. The one on the left starts forward, her blonde braid bouncing against her shoulder. "Hello! We've been waiting for you."

Moth glances behind her as the others come through the barrier. "Yo, Jenna, Zaneri!" Meliodas calls cheerfully. "How'd you know we were coming?"

"Divination," Moth answers blandly. "Anyone can do it, if they have the patience."

The woman studies her curiously, tapping the end of her staff against the ground. "You must be Crow," she says after a moment, "if that's still what you go by. My name is Jenna. Zaneri, my sister, and I are the current leaders in Istar, and are the ones who have guarded your magic all these years."

"Then you're thieves as well as murderers, as it was stolen from me." She keeps her voice mild, an easy feat given the fact that the emptiness has not lifted. "I've come to take it back."

"Hm." Jenna straightens with a sigh. "Unfortunately, you can't. Not yet, anyway. If you follow me, I'll explain why."

"Fine."

"Hold on a minute." Meliodas moves to stand in front of her, and Moth stares at the top of his head, wondering what else he could want from her. She is being obedient, she is being agreeable. Is that not enough? "Merlin explained why she removed our magic while you were in the tavern. From what I've seen, I don't think you need yours back, not after what you tried to do."

Jenna laughs brightly. "That's not up to you, Meliodas. It's up to me to decide which of you is and isn't ready to reclaim their power. Which is why you should shut up and follow me to the training caves."

The last part is said sharply, and Moth smiles faintly when she sees the irritation cross Meliodas' face. She pushes by him, and they follow Jenna up the hill to the bottom of the cliff; caves litter the bottom, yet one is larger than most, and outside are faces she recognizes easily: Howzer, Gilthunder, Griamore, and Hendrickson. The former Grand Master will not look at her, and that is fine. The other three rush to surround Meliodas, and that is fine. Moth focuses on the cave, on the swell of magic within that calls to her like a siren's song. "I have to go in," she says to Jenna, and the druid nods.

"Mm. It's a test. Do you understand? Ten years ago, you nearly destroyed Liones in your grief, and there's a deep well of it and rage within you. I need to know that you can control it."

She glances at Jenna from the corner of her eye before returning her gaze to the entrance. "Moth."

"Beg pardon?"

"That's what I go by now."

Then she steps forward, into the cave, and the darkness swallows her whole.


	8. The Three Doors

**A/N:** We're nearing the halfway point of this story, and I'm so excited to be back on track! I hope the revelations in this chapter are as interesting for you to read as they were for me to write.

* * *

There is nothing. For a moment, she feels as though _she_ is nothing, and then Moth opens her mouth and breathes in the stale, damp air and hears the thrum of her blood within her ears and knows that she does exist. Her eyes strain against the dark as they adjust; eventually, she can make out the broken-glass shapes of stones on the ground, see the cracks that weave along the walls. In the center is a pedestal of some kind, and when she approaches it, it flares into life so brightly that she jerks away, her head throbbing from the flare of light and warmth. Blinking fiercely, she turns to study it fully. The pedestal is tall and thin, carved with the runes of the Druid Clan, and at the top is a shallow bowl surrounded by dagger-sharp claws of some sort of marble. A blue flame burns serenely in the divot, casting the cave in a soft, blow glow and making the shadows flicker and dance so they seem alive.

Moth approaches it carefully. She does not know what it is, but Jenna had told her that there was a test here, one that she is determined to pass. Could this be it? The moment her fingers touch the edge of one of the protrusions — they look more like arrowheads up close, she realizes — the flame takes on a pale lilac hue, and a voice that is male and female and both and neither says, "You have come."

"Yes," she replies.

" _Alessa,"_ a low sigh that raises the hair on the back of her neck. "I have waited for you. Are you prepared?" Alarm surges through her when she tries to draw away and cannot, her hand stuck to the stone, and the fire grows larger. "It matters not. Time is no longer a luxury. You must _remember,_ all that you were and will be, you must _save her."_

The final two words are spoken in Meliodas' voice. She comes back to herself with a start, tasting smoke and ash as she breathes deeply. Around her, fires rage, buildings collapsing in on themselves as their frames turn to dust, and demons of red and white sweep through the streets, destroying all in their paths. Moth starts forward, pausing when something squelches beneath her foot; it is blood, pooling from a child half-crushed by the rubble, and she twists to search for Meliodas. _What is happening?_

"Moth!" he shouts, and she whirls, trying to find him. "Save Elizabeth!" It sounds as though he is in a nearby alley, so she dashes towards it, dodging bodies and rubble and trying not to see them. It's easier if she doesn't. The alley leads to a square, and she recognizes the fountain of the market — _is this really Liones?_ — and what she sees in the center of it makes her blood freeze in her veins.

The man from her dreams, Estarossa, is standing with his foot on Meliodas's chest, from which five swords — _five? Why so many?_ — protrude. Ribs crunch beneath his heel as he bears down, and she starts forward with a shout, intending to shove him away, only to stop when a shrill scream reaches her ears. She turns and there is Elizabeth, trapped beneath a ruined inn as a red demon reaches for her. Moth hesitates, caught between the two of them: the man who raised her and the woman she promised to protect, her heart aching and tearing in a way she has not felt since Danafor, since seeing Liz with a claw through her chest because she was _too late._ Another scream, deeper in pitch and full of agony, breaks through the haze: " _Elizabeth!"_

Moth moves. Her arms slide under Elizabeth's body as she plants her feet against the beam, and she yanks her free just as the demon crushes the place the princess had been with a giant fist. Yet behind her is only silence, thick and oppressive, and she does not want to look even though she knows that she must.

"No," she whispers. Elizabeth is sobbing, and that is proof enough that she should not turn, she should not see Meliodas, his eyes lifeless, his body mangled, she should not take in the seven — _a holy number,_ she thinks deliriously — blades branching from his chest. "No no no _no no no no."_ Boots crunch closer. Elizabeth grabs her with a cry, tugging her arm desperately, pleading with her to move, but she _can't._

"Don't be afraid."

Slowly, she lifts her gaze to Estarossa, finding him watching her almost kindly. She was wrong when they met before; he has no heart, and she understands in a broken sort of way why he is the one to hold the decree of Love because he has _murdered_ her brother and yet . . . he _smiles_ at her.

"I've kept my promise to you. Now, you'll be safe."

"Safe?" she shouts. The world around them flickers, then stills. Flames halt, demons freeze, houses pause half-fallen as she stares up at him, fear and fury filling her in equal measure. Even Elizabeth has become a living statue, locked in place, yet all Moth sees is the lifeless corpse of the man who raised her and his killer looking at her with serene eyes. "How is this _safe?_ You're burning the city, you _killed_ him, you —"

He tilts his head. "I did as you asked of me."

"I didn't ask for this!"

"But you did." Slowly, he kneels, and she flinches back when his hand reaches for her. "You wanted this to be over, did you not? You promised to free Meliodas from his suffering." Frozen, she can only wince as Estarossa lifts her chin, his fingers digging almost cruelly into her cheeks, the pinpricks of pain nothing compared to the agony festering within her. "That is what I did. You could not break their curse, despite how eagerly you swore you would, despite claiming that the ability to do so is in your blood. So I did it for you."

"No," she whispers, and he strokes her lips with his thumb.

"Little witch, with all of your rage and sorrow, and it amounted to _nothing_ in the end."

A choked whimper leaves her. There is truth in his words, and that is what _truly_ hurts; she is a creature of magic, and the books she studied as a child were full of the knowledge of curses and vendettas and how to fight against them, and in nearly three hundred years she has accomplished _nothing._ "There wasn't enough time," she murmurs, and she knows the words are foolish as soon as they leave her mouth.

He laughs coldly. " _Time?_ You've had nothing but! You wander from death to death like a wretch, each time saying that it will be the last, yet when you suffer, you bring that suffering to others. You do not try anything. You merely lash out like a child."

"No, I —"

"Have you forgotten?" His hand cards through her hair, stroking it like a lover would. "Have you forgotten them, little killer? I suppose I cannot blame you; there have been _so_ many."

Moth tries to pull away, and his grip tightens so she cannot, his eyes flat and lifeless as he stares at her. "The first time Elizabeth died, you were just a child, and yet you brought back their leader's head in a sack. You tore out a man's heart for killing another. Men, women, an entire town, it doesn't matter to you who you kill. Even now, you leave a trail of death in your wake. Did that Weird Fang's attempt to follow his orders warrant how you carved out his heart and left it for the crows?" Her breath catches in her throat; has it truly been so many? She cannot remember their faces, only the feel of blood on her hands.

"And what of how you came here? Merlin took your power from you ten years ago, because she knew you were a killer. Did you not decide that the cost of hurting Elizabeth would be the destruction of as many as you could reach before you yourself were slain? Little Moth," he sighs, "little monster. You are far worse than the mortals you have hunted to slake your fury."

"They deserved it," she hisses.

Estarossa smiles. "Why?"

"Because they killed _her."_

"She would have died if they had not. Such is the will of the gods."

Moth places her hands on his chest and tries to shove away, yet he holds her where she is. "She was innocent, she didn't deserve to die! Not like that, not . . ."

"Hush," he soothes. "If her pain hurts you so, why not take that sin upon yourself? You are no stranger to ending lives. Why not do the same to her, if you believe she deserves mercy?"

Stunned, Moth can only gaze at him, and he cradles her face gently between his palms. "What are you talking about?"

"You've considered it, haven't you?"

Her skin is crawling; bile rises in her throat as her stomach churns, hearing thoughts she has never shared with anyone — crude and dangerous and belonging to a grieving girl — making her almost sick. "At the caravan, you stood behind her in the kitchen with a knife in your hands and wondered if it would be kinder to kill her yourself. In Danafor, you urged him to leave her to die, claiming it would be _merciful."_

"No!" Finally, she wrenches free, and to her surprise there are tears on her cheeks. How did he know? "I don't want her to die!"

"Admit it, little killer. You _murdered_ the ones who harmed her because you wished you had done it yourself."

"I killed them because I couldn't bear it!" The words rip from her violently, leaving her shaking. " _I_ was meant to _save_ her, yet I failed, over and over and over again, and I couldn't protect her! What else was I supposed to do? She _dies_ because of _me!"_

He says nothing as he stands, and she watches his sword appear in his grasp, wreathed in black flame. "How selfish you are," he chastises her, "to make others miserable because you cannot bear the grief of your loss. The hubris, to say that _you_ are the one responsible, as though the gods did not decide her fate three thousand years ago. Get up." His voice is harsh now. "I have taken Meliodas from you. Now you will kill me, because that is all you are good for. You are not kind, or loving; you are merely a feral beast in human guise, one that bears its teeth at the slightest provocation."

She does not move, and he snarls, " _Get up."_

Moth closes her eyes. Three hundred years, and there is enough blood on her hands that she could drown in it, if she allowed herself. What is one more life against the near hundred she has taken? And she remembers now: a little girl had tried to save her and nearly lost her life in the process, and if Merlin had not intervened, had not torn her magic from her, she would have slaughtered the Holy Knights responsible until she herself was killed. _What is one more sin?_ Anger pulses dully behind her temples, and grief, and when she makes herself look once more, all she sees is Meliodas, the seven swords planted between his ribs. _Ghost, Echo, Wraith, Crow, Moth,_ all names he had given her, and her life, as well, pulling her from the wreckage, teaching her to hunt, to fight, to _survive._ All of it gone, torn away. Wouldn't it be easier to find an outlet? Wouldn't that bring her peace?

 _Promise me that you'll always be kind._

A voice, a woman's, but whose? She draws her hands into her lap and studies them. Murderous hands, the fingers covered with silver half-moons that mark her training, each one where her grip on a blade had slipped and she had cut her own flesh.

 _Promise me . . ._

Elizabeth, three hundred years of her, and a grief that pales in comparison to Meliodas' but is no less raw. The braids in her hair, the sunny mornings trying to cook and laughing when they burnt the eggs and had to settle for porridge instead, the soft, loving smile whenever she tucked a strand of errant hair behind Moth's ear like a mother would. And she had forgotten, hadn't she? Every pleasant memory, willfully discarded because they turned the pain into something as keen as a knife in her lungs, because she decided that there was no need to remember when all she would do was _hurt._

 _. . . that you'll always be kind._

"No," she says softly.

"No?"

Moth lifts her head to stare at him, and when her magic coils around her, it is fierce, yes, but contained, controlled. "I am Alessa of Cailleach," she says, "the daughter of Nemain, the heir to the Witch Clan. I am the god-killer, I am the curse-breaker and I will _never,"_ the fire around them begins to whirl and dance, the buildings crumble, the demons resume their path of ruin, " _see that sight again."_

"So be it." He raises his arm, the curved blade glinting wickedly in the light, glistening with Meliodas' blood, and Moth whirls around as he brings it down, shoving Elizabeth to the side as agony flares along the back of her head. "Get up, Alessa," her mother whispers. "You must. We have to get to the temple."

She is ten years old, and her world is ending.

Alessa clutches her mother's hand, wishing she was small enough still that she could be carried. _You're too big now,_ her father had said last month. _Girls of ten do not need to ride on their fathers' backs._ But she is scared, so scared of the screaming and the heat and the fear beneath her mother's soothing voice. They had been in the market, looking at fabric because she needs a dress for the bonfire next week to celebrate her birth, and then there had been smoke and men with masks and swords rushing through the square. "Mama," she cries, and her mother looks at her with a kind, strained smile.

"Hush, little bird. All will be well soon."

They clamber up the massive stone steps, and her mother hesitates only once when they see how the temple doors are flung wide instead of safely locked, as is proper. Then she hurries Alessa within, where they find the other nobles, the priestesses who rush from place to place to offer aid to the wounded, treading through pools of blood so dark it looks black, and Alessa's grandmother, sitting heavily against a wall, her left leg missing below the knee. Alessa tries to go to her, only for her mother to hold her back, herding her instead to the altar. Her gray eyes are soft as she smooths Alessa's hair from her face to press a kiss to her forehead, over the mark that still stings from the tattooing ceremony where she'd received it only a week prior.

There is a whisper of magic under her mother's lips that makes her sway on her feet. Her mother seems sad when she draws back to straighten Alessa's dress, saying, "I need you to hide for me, little bird. Until I come back for you."

"But Mama —"

"No buts," her mother says firmly. "Do you remember the rhyme I taught you?" She nods, sniffling, and her mother smiles. "Will you sing it for me, little bird? While I get your hiding place prepared?"

Alessa glances shyly at the others. Will they be hiding, too? But where? The temple is open, and there is nowhere else to go. But her mother has asked, and maybe if she sings her mother will be less worried. "Little red lark from the black moor," she lilts, "the black moor, the black moor. Little red lark from the black moor, where did you nest last night?" Her eyelids are growing heavy, yet she fights through that because her mother has asked, ignoring the weeping and the sounds of armored boots marching closer. "I slept last night on the bramble bush, on the bramble bush, on the bramble bush. I slept last night on the bramble bush. Oh, my sleep was restless."

She pauses, and her mother whispers, "I slept last night on the ocean waves —"

"— on the ocean waves, on the ocean waves. I slept last night on the . . . ocean waves. Oh, my . . . sleep was . . . was . . ." Alessa falls backwards, and her mother catches and cradles her.

"Little bird," she says softly. Outside, the screaming grows louder, but her mother's voice is sweet as she lays her beneath the altar, in a place that she never knew existed. "I want you to remember that I love you. I will always be with you, no matter where you go. And I will _always_ be proud of you."

"Mama . . .?"

Then her mother stands, and stone slides into place, trapping her in the beneath the altar. But she is too sleepy to care, and she closes her eyes, wondering when her mother will be back for her. The world around her begins to melt away, leaving her weightless and floating in the dark, and she is startled when she hears the lullaby continue: "Little red lark with the golden wings, with the golden wings, with the golden wings. Little red lark with the golden wings, where did you sleep last night?"

Moth turns her head towards the sound, but sees nothing — then she understands. She had seen nothing then, slumbering under her mother's spell, so there is nothing for whatever magic binds her here to show her. But she had _heard,_ even in unconsciousness — hasn't she always loathed the song she once found so soothing? Hadn't she wondered _why?_ — and now she is being forced to remember what she had forgotten.

Or she could sink into the silence, and remain ignorant, following the path her mother had chosen for her all those years ago.

She closes her eyes, and the sound of boots on marble surrounds her, followed by her father's voice. "You should have given her to me. Do so now, and I will spare you."

"She is but a child," her mother refutes softly.

"Where is she, Nemain?"

A long pause. "Where you will never reach her," her mother answers. "I slept last night between two leaves —"

"Do not make me kill you. If you ever loved me at all, do not ask me to do that."

"— between two leaves, between two leaves."

"Nemain."

"I slept last night between two leaves —"

A short scream interrupts the lullaby; it is followed by a moment of quiet before a muffled thud reaches her ears, and she knows then that her mother is dead and her father killed her. _And, oh, my sleep was peaceful!_


End file.
